Sophia Holmes and the Blind Banker
by Dralice99
Summary: Book 2 Sophia and her father are back and when a friend from University aproaches Sherlock looking for help with a break-in at his bank, Sherlock and Sophia know his is an offer they can't refuse. With their new flatmate John, they are forced to find out the meaning of a type of graffiti. But can they solve it before the next murder takes place?
1. Chapter 1 (02-18 02:38:44)

Dad backs away carefully and ducks to avoid the blows. The client turned attacker advances on dad, pushing him back against the sofa. I grab the attackers arms as he slashes his sword down onto dad. Dad ducks under the sword and drops into a sitting position. I jump out of the way as dad kicks out his leg, striking his chest hard before the robed figure can bring the sword back down. As he stumbles backwards, dad jumps back up and straightens his jacket once more before charging across to join my fight with the attacker.

"Duck!" He yells as the scimitar comes my way. I crouch down, then kick out my leg so that he buckles to the floor. The man growls at me and I bounce back up. He follows me up and brings the sword down upon me. Dad pushes me out of the way and grabs the mans wrists tightly. The attacker pushes dad towards the kitchen with his sword held horizontally in both hands and pins dad onto our kitchen counter. The assailant holds the scimitar so that it pushes down upon dads throat, threating to cut. Dad grimices under the weight of holding the sword up, so I charge foward and kick the attacker in the popileta fossa. He bends it a little from the impact, but doesn't fall, however it's enough to distract him so that dad is able to tilt the sword sideways and out of harms way. The point of the sword starts to dig into the counter as dad llifts his left leg and repeatedly kicks the swordsman in the side. As he begins to loosen his grip on dad, dad is able to force himself upwards again. The sword tip slides across the counter top, making a large scratch that will no doubt come out of our rent if Mrs Hudson sees it. I replace dad in the fight as he catches his breath and I bring my leg up, repeatedly kicking the swordsman in the stomach and pushing him out of the kitchen once more. I jump the sword as it swings low and land on the blade, pulling the robed man down with, at the very least, a spraigned wrist. As I leap out of the way to dodge his low kick, dad replaces me. The swordsman jumps back up and takes another swing at dad, who ducks under it. "Look!" Dad shouts, pointing to a place just over the mans shoulder. Already semi-turned around, the attacker is distracted by our reflections in the mirror, and dad uses this opportunity to swing a powerful hit to the assailant's chin, knocking him unconcious before he can flop down into dads chair. Dad straightens up immediately and checks his reflection in the mirror, re-adjusting his cuffs and brushing off the dust from his jacket before sending the unconcious man a look of hatred for ruining his suit. I give dad a sly smile and he and I loft the body up and throw it out of the window and out onto Mrs Hudsons bins. I listen with delight as he lands on the safety of the bags. He won't be seriously injured - he just won't be able to remember that he came. I check out my own appearance in the mirror. My white, sheer blouse is all ruffled and dusty, and my black leggings are torn from the blade, but on the bright side - no cuts!

"All this over a damn God," I groan. Dad laughs and takes his phone out.

"Yes, quite," he looks me up and down. "John'll be back soon. To stop him fussing, you might want to change." It's my turn to chuckle, but I turn around and head to the room that me and my dad share. Now I know what your small, inappropriate minds are thinking. No, I don't sleep in his bed, and I certainly don't get dressed around him either, so please delete that thought. Thank you.

I am Sophia Elizabeth Holmes, and you may have heard of the last case we cracked - A Study in Pink, as John prefers to call it.

I dress myself in another white, sheer blouse and black leggings, and leave my others in the increasingly large pile of other clothes that Mrs Hudson hasn't washed yet. By the time I've finished getting changed, I hear the front door slam shut, and the footsteps of Doctor John Watson coming up the stairs. Casually walking out of my bedroom, I lean against the doorframe of the kitchen and wait for John to come in. In front of me, dad sits calmly in his armchair reading one of the many books we own.

As John walks in to the room, he stops to look around, frowning in suspicion that something has happened whilst he's been gone, but he doesn't seem to have any shopping with him, which is what he supposedly went out to get.

"You took your time," dad says, not looking up from his book.

"Yeah, I didn't get the shopping." Dad looks over the top of his book indignantly.

"What? Why not?"

"Because I had a row, in the shop, with a chip-and-PIN machine," John answers, tetchily. Dad lowers his book a little to look at John with suprise whilst I attempt to stifle a laugh.

"You ... you had a row with a machine?"

"Sort of," John replies, still angry. "It sat there and I shouted abuse. Have you got cash?" Dad smiles, amused at Johns normal human troubles, and nods towards the kitchen.

"Take my card." John hesitates for a moment before walking towards the kitchen, but stops as he reaches me and turns back to dad indignantly.

"You could always go yourself, you know," John says, angrily, and being so very, very ignorant to dads own troubles with machines. "You've been sitting there all morning. You've not even moved since I left." I put a innocent face on, and walk over to dad to grab a book. It's best just to let John make his own assumptions, it stops the waste of several tedious minutes of explaining. John rumages through dads wallet to find a suitable card to use.

"And what happened about that case you were offered - the Jaria Diamond?"

"Not interested," dad says casually, and I smirk. Using a piece of paper as a bookmark, he slams his book shut. My eyes fall down to his feet and the where the scimitar lies in plain view. I cough slightly, and dad looks at me, questionly. I indicate to the sword, and he quickly slams his foot onto the edge and sends it further under the chair. "I sent them a message," he continues firmly. My smirk grows larger as I remember the uppercut which ended the fight.

John seems to have found a new card he can use, but pauses to bend over to look at the new scratch in our counter. He sighs as he runs his finger along the top to see if it can come off.

"Ugh, Holmes," he says in an annoyed whisper and looks across at us, tutting pointedly. Dad shakes his head innocently and John turns and leaves the flat again as dad smirks at me knowingly.

"I think we need to get rid of the sword," I say quietly as I hear the door slam shut downstairs. Dad nods in agreement and squats down to fetch the scimitar from beneath his seat, before we throw it out of the window and on top of the bins. I see our 'client' woke up, then. As I turn back around, I see dad is already sat up at our desk, and turning on Johns laptop. Oh the days where he had to get up and fetch his own laptop.

This has been our routine for the last two weeks: Client, computer, emails, repeat. Nothing decent has come up on the website for months, and I'm starting to believe the emails are a long shot too. Dad lets out a sigh of delight and I spin around. The computer has fired up already, and dad has a new email. A potential client? He opens it up and raises his eyebrows in suprise.

"Sebastian Wilkes?" I question, scanning through the email.

"Collage," dad mutters, narrowing his eyes. "Never liked him." I roll my eyes and read the email in it's entirity.

Sherlock,

How're things, buddy? Been a long time since we last met.

I hear on the grapevine that you're now a consulting detective? There's been an 'incident' at the bank - something intresting. I'm hoping you can sort it for me.

Please call by. Needless to say, I'll be relying on your discretion.

Sebastian

"Buddy?" I snigger, leaning over his shoulder to get a better view.

"No idea," dad replies, smirking.

"Anyway, what are you thinking?"

"I don't know," dad replies, putting his hands into a praying position. Sighing, I turn away to get my own laptop from the bedroom. He's not going to be talking for a while.

"Don't worry about me. I can manage," John says sarcastically as he climbs the stairs, laden with several bags of heavy shopping.

"Don't worry, we aren't," I sing back. Dad chuckles quietly, but John just sighs and shakes his head at my remark. Dad folds his hands in front of his mouth, and I can see his brain trying to figure out what to do. John dumps the shopping on the kitchen counter and frowns as he sees the computer dad's using.

"Is that my computer?" He asks as dad begins to type.

"Of course," dad replies simply, concentrating on his email. From what I can see, he's agreeing to come.

"What?!" John says in disbelief.

"Mine was in the bedroom," dad continues, not bothered by Johns feelings about the computer.

"What, and you couldn't be bothered to get up? Sophia ... Sophie, why couldn't you get it?"

"Couldn't be bothered," I say, smiling sweetly at him. "I've been doing it for about ten years, I've earned my rest." Dad snorts at my retort.

"It's password protected!" John shouts indignantly, not taking any notice of me.

"In a manner of speaking," dad replies calmly, still typing. "Took me less than a minute to guess yours," he glances up at John with a smirk. "Not exactly Fort Knox."

"Right, thank you," John says, annoyed, and coming over to slam the lid down. Dad pulls his hands away in disbelief and holds them there for a minute before he puts them into the prayer position again, resting his elbows on the table and looking thoughtful. John takes the laptop across the room, and puts it down on the floor beside his armchair as he sits down. It's not as if he's using it though, is it? So why can't dad use it?

John picks up a small pile of bills that I brought up earlier, and frowns.

"Oh," he mutters quietly as he sifts through them. I know at least one of them requires urgent paying, and the rest are just escalating in price. John shakes his head in surrender to the fact he's about to say. "Need to get a job."

"Oh, dull," dad mutters, half listening to the conversation as John puts the letters back onto the table and looks across to dad for a moment, before he looks back at the letters.

"Listen, um ..." he begins, leaning forward awkwardly, "if you'd be able to lend me some ..." he fades off as he realises that neither dad nor I are listening properly. "Sherlock, are you listening?" Dad doesn't look around, but he seems to have reached the conclusion of what to do.

"I need to go to the bank" he says quietly, getting up and heading towards the stairs and throwing me my coat from the hook, before putting on his own and heading outside. John frowns at my dad's sudden change of attitude, but then jumps up to join him, following behind me.

The bank that dad leads us to is certainly not the one he uses, and neither does it look very welcoming to children of my age. The name of the bank is the Shad Sanderson Bank, I notice, as I follow dad through a set of revolving glass doors into the foyer. John looks up, impressed at the sight of all the white walls and glass ceilings.

"Yes, when you said we were going to the bank ..." John fades off as he steps onto a large escalator behind us. Dad and I look around, observing the level of security this bank contains. It seems everything in here is pretty secure, and they've obviously spent a lot of money insuring it stayed that way. I don't see how anybody could have walked through the doors with authorisation from someone higher up, unless it was one of the employees or one of the customers who came in. Other than that, I have no idea, and I don't think dad does either, although he won't admit it. We reach the top, and dad walks over to the reception desk.

"Sherlock Holmes," dad says confidently to one of the women.

"Yes, of course sir. Mr Wilkes was expecting you, but I'm not sure if your..."

"They're with me," dad inturrpts.

"Of course sir. I'll send a message through to Mr Wilkes. If you can just wait through there, please." She indicates to a room to the left, and dad walks directly over to it. I leave her a small smile of thanks before I follow after dad.

A little while later, we're shown into Mr Sebastian Wilkes' office by his secretery.

"Sherlock Holmes," the man greets, smiling broadly.

"Sebastian," dad says, his face emotionless towards the man as they shake hands, Sebastian clasping dads hand in both of his own.

"Howdy, buddy. How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?" Dad ignores him, but looks back with dislike which is barely disguised. Sebastian turns to look at John and I.

"This is my daughter, Sophia Holmes," dad introduces me, and I step forward to shake Mr Wilkes' hand.

"Pleasure to meet you," he smiles at me, but I ignore him, my attention more focused on his watch.

"... And this is my friend, John Watson."

"Friend?" Wilkes queries, latching onto dads emphasis on the word.

"Colleague," John corrects him, also looking pretty emotionless.

"Right," Sebastian says, looking curiously at John as they too shake hands. "Right." He throws dad a quick look of suprise at his ability to gain a friend, then smiles unpleasantly as he scratches at his neck, his watch on full show. I think dad might of noticed the watch as well. As Sebastian turns away, John purses his lips, seeming to take an immediate dislike at this man. I can't say I like him much either, but if it results in an intresting case, then I'm all for it, and I think that was the only reason dad took up the offer as well.

"Well, grab a pew," Sebastian smiles, gesturing us to some seats. "D'you need anything? Coffee, water?" Dad and I shake our heads, wordlessly, but John speaks up our answer.

"No."

"No?" Sebastian questions, turning to his secretary. "We're all sorted here, thanks." As the secretary leaves behind us, Wilkes sits down behind his desk, and we take the seats in front of him so that we're side by side.

"So, you're doing well," dad states. "You've been abroad a lot."

"Well, some," Wilkes lies, modestly.

"Flying all the way round the world twice in a month?" I see John frown in confusion, but I just smile innocently, enjoying the scene. Sebastian just laughs and points at dad.

"Right. You're doing that thing," he chuckles, looking to John. "We were at uni together. This guy here had a trick he used to do."

"It's not a trick," dad mutters quietly, obviously annoyed.

"He could look at you and tell you your whole life story." Wilkes continues to John.

"Yes, I've seen him do it." John says, joining in on the conversation.

"Put the wind up everybody. We hated him." I turn my head to see dad turn his own away, looking down, his face filling with pain from the memories. I smile to myself at how like each other we are, as I'm getting the same trouble at the moment. "You'd come down to breakfast in the Formal Hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night."

"I simply observed," dad mutters again, quietly.

"Go on, enlighten me. Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world - you're quite right. How could you tell?" Dad opens his mouth to speak, but Sebastian continues to lower my IQ by talking.

"You're gonna tell me there was, um, a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan," he continues, smugly. John smiles, knowing at where he's getting at. I can tell you exactly how I know, but if I know dad, he won't explain it now.

"No, I ..." Dad starts, but Sebastian begins to talk over him.

"Maybe it was the mud on my shoes!" Dad looks back at him for a second before attempting to speak again.

"I was just chatting with your secretary outside," dad lies, convincingly. "She told me." John frowns at dad, confused by the fact that we didn't speak to the secretary at all. In fact, dad ignored her for the most part. Wilkes laughs humorlessly, and dad smiles back with an equal lack of humour. Sebastian claps his hands together and becomes more serious.

"I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break-in."

"That statement was clearly stated in your email," dad mutters.

"Yes, of course," he says, blushing a little. "Yes, so do you want to see it?"

"Naturally," dad says, standing up and walking towards the door. I stand up with him, and Sebastian leads us across the trading floor and towards another door.

"Sir William's office - the bank's former Chairman. The room's been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night," he explains as we walk.

"What did they steal?" John asks.

"Nothing," Sebastian Wilkes says. "Just left a little message." He holds his security card against the reader by the door, and the door clicks open. A burgaler wouldn't have been able to have get through by the door.

Hanging on the whitewash wall behind the desk is a framed portrait of a man in a business suit, perhaps the late Sir William Shad himself. On the wall to the left of the portrait, someone has sprayed some yellow graffiti into the form of the number '8', but the top of the number has been left open and above is an almost horizontal, straight line. Across the eyes of the portriat, the graffitiest has sprayed another almost horizontal, straight line, and the paint trickles down in trails down the painting. Could it be one of the employees who had a dislike of the late chairman or the bank in general?

Sebastian leads us towards the desk, and then steps aside so that dad and I get a clear view of the wall. John moves to stand on the other side of Wilkes, who looks at us expectantly, as if we're about to spout a conclusion already. I think I've seen these symbols before, I just can't place where I know them from.

"Could you show us the security footage from last night, around the time of the break in?" I question him, not breaking eye contact with the wall.

"Yes, yes, if you'll come back to my office..." He trails off as I stalk over to the door, now aware that I'm not listening.

Back in Sebastian Wilkes' office, he flicks a seperate tab open to show us the video footage of last night.

"Sixty seconds apart," Sebastian tells us, flicking to and fro between the images taken at 23:33:01 - which shows the office as it should be - clean and tidy - but then, sixty seconds later at 23:34:01, it shows the wall and painting covered with paint. "So, someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around, then left within a minute," Sebastian conludes.

"How many ways into that office?" asks dad.

"Well, that's where this gets really interesting. Come with me, I'll show you our security system. Only the receptionists have control over it because there will always be someone at that desk," he explains as he gets up, and leads us back out and through the doors to reception. "Mandy, yes," he greets one of the reception girls. "I need you to work with Heather for a minute - I need to show these guys something." 'Mandy' nods and leaves us with Sebastian. He taps into her computer systems and brings up the layout of the trading floor and the offices surrounding it. Each indicated door has a light against it, showing it's security status. "Every door that opens in this bank, it gets logged right here. Every walk-in cupboard, every toilet."

"That door didn't open last night," dad states, correctly.

"There's a hole in our security. Find it and we'll pay you - five figures," Sebastian says, reaching into his breast pocket, and pulls out a cheque. "This is an advance. Tell me how he got in, there's a bigger one on its way."

"I don't need an incentive, Sebastian," dad mutters, before walking away. I follow him, but I can hear John stop to collect the cheque we need urgently to pay the bills.


	2. Chapter 2

I barely slept at all during the night. The visions of graffiti and dead bodies flash before my eyes as I attempt to piece together the case, but like a puzzle that's missing it's pieces, I know I can't find the right solution without having the evidence to support it. I know the graffiti is a warning and that it must mean something, but the question is, what? Another fact I can't establish is how did the murderer manage to scale around five floors of flats up to Van Coons bedroom?

At five, I pull myself out of my own bed, ensuring that I don't wake dad up, as he had a rough night's sleep as well. John is in the living room as I slip out of the bedroom door, and open the fridge to pull out the milk, noting down on a piece of paper todays developments of a skull. He jumps as I walk up behind his armchair and peek over his shoulder to his laptops screen, and to extend, the job aplication form on a hospitals website.

"Sophie!" he cries, gasping and clutching his laptop tight. "Try not to sneak up on me like that!" I send him my innocent face, then plonk down opposite him on dads seat.

"Why are you so determined to get a job?" I ask, leaning foward casually.

"We need the money," he mutters his reply, going back to typing.

"We've got that cheque Sebastian gave you," I point out, and John looks up, suprised, "and more upcoming. We'll be fine for several months."

"How did you know I'd taken it?" he asks me, looking utterly confused.

"I'm not stupid," I scoff. "I knew you were worried about paying the bills, so you collected the cheque. Hardly a difficult leap." John shakes his head in disbelief and concentrates back on thd laptop in front of him.

"Looks like I have an interview at Dr Sawyer and Partners," John says, reading through the text on the screen. "It's for ten o'clock down Thurliegh road." He looks up to me for my response.

"Thurliegh?" I ask, confirming and working out the route in my mind. "That's just under five miles away. Why not just go somewhere closer?" John shrugs, and slams his laptop shut.

"Dunno, I've just got a good feeling." I snort in disbelief.

"There's no such thing as coinidence," I remind him as I head back into the kitchen to make myself some breakfast. "Umm, might need some new milk," I say as I look at the old pint with disdain. "I'll be back in a bit."

"Yea, ok, stay safe!" John calls after me as I grab my coat, and I roll my eyes. He knows perfectly well I can look after myself. Downstairs, I open the front door and step out onto the pavement, turning my coat collar up againt the breezy morning. Across the road, a short asian woman wearing dark glasses points a camera towards my direction, but as a bus passes in front, she dissapears. Shrugging it off, I hail a cab and get in, insuring I keep an eye on where the woman was standing. Perhaps it's just paranoia.

The lady doesn't crop up again at all during the morning, which leads me to think that she was just a tourist that happened to be looking my way. Strange that she was wearing glasses, though, unless she had an eye problem. Not that she matters now. A fresh pint of milk numbs my hand as I carry it back to Baker Street after stopping at the end of the road. I never like my driver to know my final destination, if I can help it. As I enter the flats kitchen, I hide my snigger as John paces the room in a plaid shirt and a dull brown jumper.

"Do you realise that you've still got around three hours until you need to be there?"

"Sophie!" he cries again, and I chuckle quietly. "It's good to be prepared."

"Aren't you a bit too prepared?" I laugh. "You've got more qualifications than most of the doctors who work there put together!"

"Don't say that!" John groans.

"Look, go downstairs and get some tea, then head off when you're ready." John nods, looking peaky.

"I hear there's a young woman who runs the interviews," I say, looking slyly at John out of the corner of my eye as I march over to the printer, my phone in hand.

"Well, I'll just be..." he fades off, coughing and gesturing towards the door. As the door slams shut downstairs, I plug my phone into the printer, and it begins to print out all of the photos I took yesterday. Once they're all printed, I disconnect my phone and toss it aside, then I stick them around the mirror. Dad emerges from the bedroom, fully alert and dressed, clutching a laptop. He thrusts it onto the table and spins two of the dining room chairs around and sits on one. I sit beside him, and focus my mind on the images in front of me.

I feel my senses numb, and the beat of my heart lowers to the speed of a sleeping mans. I feel my emotions freeze in a block of ice, then I tie them up in chains and throw them to the back of my mind where they won't distract me. I walk the corridors of my Mind Palace in silence, looking thouroughly around every room. Every item means something. The path takes me outside to a long brick wall covered in different graffiti. Each brick resembles a different graffiti type, colour, artist and meaning, and I take out a few bricks and scan them. Almost immediately, the facts I stored away come foward, and I examine them as if they're standing on a podium. All the symbols I have ever come across wizz across in front of my eyes, but none of them look familiar to the one in the office. I find logos, tags, inscriptions and birthsigns, but nothing resembles them. If it was a game, then surely the artist would have made sure we knew the code, wouldn't he?

I snap out of my Palace as the sound of footsteps echo through my mind, causing an earthquake to the street I was stood on. The sound of material landing on a denser material comes as an after shock, and I open my eyes, already knowing who and what the sounds belong to, and realise I must have been in the Palace for several hours.

"I said, 'Could you pass me a pen?'" dad murmers quietly, without opening his eyes or looking at John. John looks around the flat, as if be thinks dad is speaking to him, but after confirming that he's alone, replies.

"What?" John asks, looking confused. "When?"

"'Bout an hour ago," dad replies, his eyes still shut.

"Didn't notice I'd gone out, then," John sighs and picks up a pen, throwing it over without looking in our direction. Dad opens his eyes, and catches the pen in his left hand, without tearing his eyes away from the photos. John walks over to the mirror to take a closer look at the images.

"Yeah, I went to see about a job at that surgery," John begins.

"How was it?" dad asks before I can,the smirks at me.

"It's great," John replies, absent mindedly. "She's great." I smile knowingly, and dad frowns.

"Who?"

"The job," John says, looking back around at dad.

"'She'?" dad questions.

" ... It," John says, trying to cover his slip of the tounge. Dad looks at John suspicioulsy for a moment, then jerks his head to the right.

"Here, have a look," dad says, indicating towards the laptop beside him.

"Hmm?" John says with a questioning tone, then walks over to the table. I glance over to look at the Online News webpage and the lead article that is titled, 'Ghostly killer leaves a mystery for police'. Beside it is an image of a bald, overweight man in his late thirties, and beneath it, the article reads: An intruder who can walk through walls murdered a man in his London apartment last night. Brian Lukis, 41, a freelance journalist from Earl's Court was found shot in his fourth floor flat but all his doors and windows were locked and there were no apparent signs of a break in. A police spokesman said they are still uncertain how the assailant broke in and are treating this event as a suicide.

"The intruder who can walk through walls," John reads.

"Happened last night," dad informs us as I read it again, searching for clues and analysing the text. "Journalist shot dead in his flat; doors locked, windows bolted from the inside – exactly the same as Van Coon."

"God," John says, straightening up. "You think ..."

"He's killed another one."

Dad slams the lid shut on the laptop and exits swiftly from the room. I follow behind, a sense of urgency in our moves as we hail an approaching cab once we reach the pavement outside. My brain races through the million possible connections that this man might have to Van Coon. Perhaps they once met at the bank, back when that money scandel was in the news? The pounding in my head deafens me as I admit to myself that we don't have enough evidence to go on. We need to see the flat.

I push the door to Dimmocks office open and cross the floor to his desk, determination the only thing on my mind.

"There's been another murder," I announce loudly, causing him and several others around us to look up, as dad and John catch up with me. "Just the same as Van Coon, exactly the same cause of death."

"Now excuse me-" he begins to protest, but I interupt.

"All we want is five minutes in Lukis' flat," I continue, ignoring him. He purses his lips and looks down stubbornly at the carpet.

"Look, I don't know what makes you think that you've got the-" he tries again, bur dad spins his laptop around and begins to type the web address for the Online News.

"Brian Lukis, freelance journalist," dad talks as he types, and Dimmock crosses his arms impatiently, annoyed with being interrupted again. "Murdered in his flat ..." he turn the computer back around to show the young detective the article to back up my outburst.

Dimmock crosses his arms impatiently as dad turns the laptop back around, showing him the article to back up my outburst, " ... doors locked from the inside."

"You've gotta admit, it's similar," John says, seeming to have swapped side since before. Dimmock scowls at the laptop like any police detective would if they are presented with some evidence that doesn't match up to their 'foolproof' theory. "Both men killed by someone who can ..." John hesitates for a moment as he thinks about the abnormality of what he's about to say next, but continues, "... walk through solid walls."

"Inspector," dad says, joining in again, "do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another City suicide?" The detective fidgets uncomfortabley, not meeting any of our eyes. Dad looks upwards in exasperation and sighs pointedly. "Youhave seen the ballistics report, I suppose?"

"Mmm," Dimmock replies, nodding uncomfortabley but not elaberating.

"And the shot that killed him: was it fired from his own gun?"

"No," he says, reluctantly.

"No," dad repeats, louder and firmer. "So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take our word as gospel." Dimmock looks back at him in silent stubborness as dad leans over the desk.

"I've just handed you a murder enquiry," he says quietly, staring intently at Dimmock. He nods towards the picture of the overweight man in the photograph on the screen and speaks louder."Five minutes in his flat." The detective sighs and his eyes flit around the room for a moment as he searches for the answer.

"Alright, but I'll be right behind you."

"Excellent," dad says venomously as we leave.

I step out of the taxi, stopping only to pay the cabbie, then lead the boys towards the tower block of flats which are surrounded with police tape. I hear the sound of a car pulling away, and register Dimmocks footsteps as he jogs to catch us up.

"You can have five minutes, not a second more," he informs us, as we reach the door. John, I think, nods in acknowlegment, but dad just leads on past me, ducking under the police tape at the bottom of the stairs. We climb the stairs behind dad, observing the piles of books that are stacked in heaps to the side. He leads us through to the living room and I immediately begin to make links to Van Coon. On the floor, there is an open suitcase, clearly just come back from a trip abroad. Nearby, I spot a small origami flower, similar to the one we found in Van Coon's mouth. Realising this, I bring my head up to look at the bookcases and the types of books he own. There seems to be a theme of Asia, especially around the area of Hong Kong, which suggests that he was a travel journalist. I take a few of the books out from the shelf and flick through the pages, gaining an idea of what they're about. Maps of Asia, specifically detailing the borders and the countries around China. Book of Chinese Antiquities and what they're worth. I file this away.

More books lie on the floor, but I mearly glance them over as I walk back across the room to dad. He enters the kitchen area of the flat and looks through the window, pushing back the net curtain for a better view of the surrounding buildings.

"Four floors up," he says, smirking."That's why they think they're safe. Put a chain across the door and bolt it shut; think they're impregnable." Dad drops the curtain and joins me in the centre of the room. "They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in." John frowns as he thinks over the possible solution, but not realising the obvious.

I enter the kitchen, seeing for myself the buildings and drawing up a plan of how he climbed in as dad steps into the hallway by the stairs.

"I don't understand," Dimmock admits, as I come out to join dad.

"You're dealing with a killer who can climb," dad explains as he climbs onto a box, getting closer to a skylight which is positioned high on the angled roof.

"What are you doing?" Dimmock demands.

"He clings to the walls like an insect," dad continues, blanking the detective as he unhooks the latch, pushing the window upwards.

"That's how he got in," dad realises, speaking softly to himself and to me.

"What?!" Dimmock questions.

"Climbed up the side of the walls," dad explains, patiently, "ran along the roof, dropped in through this skylight."

"You're not serious!" he scoffs. "Like Spiderman?!"

"He scaled six floors of a Docklands apartment building, jumped the balcony to kill Van Coon."

"Oh, ho-hold on!" Dimmock says, disbelief poisoning his laughs.

"And of course that's how he got into the bank," dad continues, steooing down back onto the landing. "He ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace." He looks around and beckons me onto the box. "We have to find out what connects these two men," dad says as I pull out my pocket magnifier, bringing the murderers footprint into a recordable size. "Size eight feet," I mutter softly to myself as I mentally note this down. "Small frame, but athletic." Behind me, dad jumps down a few stairs, noticing again the books on the stairs. I step down, following him down the stairs as he picks up a book, opens it, then slams it shut again, heading quickly towards the door.

"We need the opportunity to take a few photos so that we can look back to them at a later date," dad explains as we walk away. "The average human brain only remembers 62% of visiual matters, and I can only remember around 96%, so we need to collect the evidence now before it's removed." I nod in agreement, and pass dad the card I pickpocketed from Sebastian in the reception. He slides it through the scanner and the door clicks open. "Sophie, search the room for anything that looks out of the ordinary," he orders as he walks towards the wall, pulling out his phone as he reaches it.

"Got it, but what do you mean by 'out of the ordianary'?"

"Something that looks out of place in an office which has been untouched for several months," dad mutters as he takes the first photo. "Start in the corner, by the window." Nodding, I stride over, and pull my pocket magnifying glass out. A thin layer of dust lies untouched in the corner, but as I move closer to the windows, the dust fades away, as if someone or something has stepped on it.

"Over here!" I call, and dad pockets his phone and walks over.

"What is it?" He asks as he arrives next to me.

"The artist came through those doors. I believe they lead onto a balcony of sorts." Dad looks up and out of the window, taking in the stunning view of London and the Swiss Re Tower that stands before us. Frowning, he walks over and pulls up to blind to reveal the door that I mentioned lead onto a balcony, and he steps outside. Dad gazes around at the spectacular view without taking in any of the beauty, before he looks down. Jist the sight of him leaning over the edge is enough to make me feel dizy. He looks sideways along the balcony, before he bites his lip thoughtfully and comes back through.

"You're right, the grafitiest certainly entered through that door, but he would have had to climb up the building to get up here." I nod, thoughtfully.

"So what's our next plan?" I ask him as I stand back up.

"We need to see who the message was aimed at," he says thoughtfully. "See the way the desks are arranged?" he asks, pointing through the window to the workers outside. I nod, silently. "The pillars mean that only a handful of people can look into this office, and that can tell us a lot. Our next job is to find the spots that workers can see the graffiti, from that, we will be able to deduce who it was for." I nod in agreement, and we exit the office. On a silent agreement, I take one half of the trading floor, and dad takes the other, and we immediately begin ducking and weaving between the pillars. I keep my eyes fixed on the office as I move through each desk, but all of the angles seem slighly off. I can see most of the room, but the graffiti is in my blind spot. I enter one of the other offices to the side of the main trading floor, the rooms for the Japanise, Hungarian, Russian and French employees, but the view from these rooms completely cuts my line of vision off interally. Dad smiles at me as he enters the room, holding a slip of paper naming a man called Edward Van Coon.

"Found him?" I ask, rhetorically. He nods and we file out of the office. Some of the traders send us some dirty looks for disturbing their work, whilst others smile in amusmant after our little dance around the room.

Soon after, we meet John in the reception and I pull put my phone.

"Two trips around the world this month," John says as we travel the escalator. "You didn't ask his secretary; you said that just to irritate him." Dad gives him a small smile, but doesn't respond. "Howdidyou know?"

"Did you see his watch?" dad asks.

"His watch?" John repeats, looking puzzled.

"The time was right but the date was wrong. Said two days ago. Crossed the dateline twice but he didn't alter it."

"Within a month?" John says."How'd you get that part?"

"New Breitling," dad smiles as he names the make of the watch. From memory, it was a 'Breitling Chronometre Crosswind'. "Only came out this February."

"Okay. So d'you think we should sniff around here for a bit longer?"

"Got everything I need to know already, thanks."

"Hmm?" John says, waiting for dad to explain.

"That graffiti was a message for someone at the bank working on the trading floors. We find the intended recipient and ..." He trails off deliberately to allow John to think for himself, like he's done to me many times.

"... they'll lead us to the person who sent it," John finishes, hesitantly.

"Obvious," dad mutters.

"Well, there's three hundred people up there. Who was it meant for?"

"Pillars," dad says, and John looks lost.

"What?"

"Pillars and the screens," dad explains. "Very few places you can see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And of course the message was left at eleven thirty-four last night. That tells us a lot." Of course! People come and go inthat back at different times, according to the time zone of that country. Someone would have come in around midnight, and they wouldbe the one it was aimed for.

"Does it?" John says, completely clueless as usual.

"Traders come to work at all hours," dad explains as we walk through the revolving glass doors and onto thestreet outside."Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for someone who came in at midnight," he says as he holds the name card up to show John.

"Not many Van Coons in the phonebook." A taxi comes round the corner, and he lifts up his arm to hail it. "Taxi!" He calls loudly, and it comes to a stop in front of us. "Sophia, the address," he mutters to me.

"Er, Docklands, please," I say to the cabbie, ensuring I take a good look at him before I get in, memorising his appearance after our last fiasco.

Twenty minutes later, we step out of the taxi, and I lead them to the block of flats the phonebook says he lives at. Dad steps forward and presses the door buzzer underneath the label 'Van Coon'. Releasing it, he steps back and looks into the security camera above all the buzzers. There's no reply for several seconds, sohe steps forward and presses it again. There's no response.

"So what do we do now? Sit here and wait for him to come back?"

"It'll take too long," I mutter to him as dad looks at the number of buzzers on the wall. "He could be inside already, or gone into hiding since getting the message." John nods as dad steps back, looking at us triumphantly.

"Just moved in," he smiles.

"What?"

"The floor above," he explains."New label." Dad points to another buzzer which says 'Wintle'. Going by the layout of the flats, that would put the position of their flat at being just above Van Coons. The balcony's get bigger as they come lower, which would mean we could get down into the apartment via the balcony.

"They wouldn't have seen Van Coon then yet, would they?" I question, looking at the handwritten label.

"No, I hoping not, anyway."

"How do you know they've just moved in?" John challenges. "Could have just replaced it." I scoff as dad steps forward to press that buzzer and John looks at me hurt.

"No-one ever does that," dad sneers.

"Hello?" The supposed Ms Wintle says over the intercom. Dad turns to the security cameraand puts on his fake innocent voice, as I turn on my role, sighing and looking at my nails.

"Hi! Um, I live in the flat just below you. I-I don't think we've met," he says as he grins flirtingly into the camera.

"No, well, uh, I've just moved in," Ms Wintle replies. Dad turns around to throw a brief 'told you so' glance at John before he turns back to the camera.

"Actually, I've just locked my keys in my flat," dad says, grimacing and biting his lip plaintively.

"D'you want me to buzz you in?"

"Yeah. And can I use your balcony?"

"What?" Ms Wintle says, sounding surprised. "Er yea, come on up." She buzzes us in, and we climb the stairs up onto Van Coons floor.

"I'll wait here, let me in, yeah, Sherlock," John says, stopping.

"Yeah, of course," dad agrees half heartedly, although I know he won't. Once we've reached the next floor, dad leads me down the corridor to Wintle's front door. He knocks hesitantly, and puts on his false smile once more.

"Oh hi," dad says, smiling nervously. Ms Wintle, a young woman in her thirties who has an obsession with collecting teapots and curtains welcomes us in and shows us to the balcony.

"Just shout if you need me," she calls, as she disappears into one of the rooms. Dad walks out onto the balcony, and I follow behind. I look over the rail and see the ground is several floors below. I step back, feeling dizzy. Dad climbs over the side, and I feel my heart skip a beat as he drops down out of sight.

"Sherlock?" I call, croakily.

"I'm alright," he shouts upwards. "Swing your legs over and hang down as far as you can. I'll catch you." I do as he says, despite my heart beating hard against my chest . I drop down, and stumble towards the rail in front of me, but dad catches me before I can tumble over. "You okay?" He asks, seriously before I nod and he swings the balcony door open. It's a good job it is open. I can just imagine how much fun Lestrade and the police could have if we were locked out here.

The apartment is very elegantly decorated, and at a single glance you can tell it belongs to a wealthy bacheolor. There is plush, white leather furniture and glossy black surfaces and minimal clutter. The arrangement of the phone and paper beside it leads me to believe he's left handed. I examine everything I see for any signs that would link him personally to the graffitiest, but I see none. I'm aware of dad walking into the kitchen and pulling open a fridge full of champagne. I frown at the oddity and stand up, just as the door buzzes.

"Sherlock," John calls from outside, thinking that I'm still up with Ms Wintle. Dad ignores him, and moves into the hall. "Sherlock, are you okay?" John repeats to no success. I follow dad into the hallway and glance into a small bathroom which has a few items on the shelf in front of me, incluing an expensive bottle of soap. I shut the door behind me, and follow dad to a larger door which seems to be locked. "Yeah, any time you feel like letting me in," John says again, sarcastically. He'll only get in our way and possibely disrupt the evidence. Dad turns side-on and shoulder-barges the door so that it burst open at first contact. I follow him in but he stops suddenly in front of me. I can't see, but I can deduce it's a body.

"Sophie," dad mutters, "fetch John in." I peer around him to look and see the body sprawled on his bed, a bullet through his right temple and the gun on the floor, which makes me second guess my deduction which I made just now. I walk across the apartment and unlock the door.

"Sophie, I thought you were-"

"No time," I say, inturrupting his useless mutter. "We've found his body." John opens his mouth in shock, and I lead him through to where dad stands stiffly, holding a phone to his ear and talking in a hushed voice to Scotland Yard, possibley Lestrade.

"Just get here as soon as you can," dad hisses quietly.

"He's been delayed," I whisper to John, who nods. Dad slides his phone shut in annoyance and grabs the gun from the floor. He strides back to the balcony and I hear three gunshots.

Barely five minutes later, a whole procession of police cars file into Docklands, and a team of forensics enter the flat. I stand in the hallway, directing some into the bedroom, whilst others mill around in the living room, kitchen and bathroom, dusting fingerprints off of surfaces and taking pictures of the intact lock on the door. A young, plain clothed officer, a Sergant going by his age, enters the flat and looks around, before looking to me.

"Where's the body?" He demands.

"In the bedroom," I say, gesturing down the corridor, then I attempt to lead him to it, but he becomes side-tracked at ordering one of his colleuges to do something.

As I join dad and John in the bedroom, I look around and see the crime scene photographer taking a few photos of Van Coon's body which still lies on the bed. A forensics officer is dusting a few fingerprints off of a mirror. Dad hands me some latex gloves as John stands beside us, just looking at the body with distaste.

"D'you think he'd lost alotof money?" John asks. "I mean, suicide is pretty common among City boys."

"We don't know that it was suicide," dad says, and I go through the evidence we have so far through my mind. Most things do seem to point to suicide, apart from the position of Van Coons gun.

"Come on. The door was locked from the inside; you had to climb down the balcony," John says as dad squats down by a suitcase on the floor.

"Yes, but the same thing happened at the bank, but I think it's impossible for a wall and painting to spray itself," I explain as dad opens the lid and looks at the contents of it.

"Been away three days, judging by the laundry," dad points out. I come over and see a large indentation in the clothing. "Look at the case. There was something tightly packed inside it."

"Thanks – I'll take your word for it," John says uncomfortabley.

"Problem?" Dad asks, and I pause to look up at John

"Yeah, I'm not desperate to root around some bloke's dirty underwear." Dad ignores him and walks over to the foot of the bed, whilst I continue to route through the case.

"Those symbols at the bank – the graffiti. Why were they put there?" Dad asks out loud.

"What, some sort of code?"

"Obviously," dad replies and looks closely at Van Coons shoes and legs, then moves up to his jacket and into the the pockets. "Why were they painted? If you want to communicate, why not use e-mail?"

"Well, maybe he wasn't answering," John suggests.

"Oh good. You follow," dad says.

"No." John gets a look of exasperation thrown at him a dad continues his secondary servey down to Van Coon's hands.

"What kind of a message would everyone try to avoid?" Dad asks, trying to get John to think, but he just frowns in confusion.

"What about this morning – those letters you were looking at?"

"Bills," John says simply.

"Or?" Dad continues, waving at me to answer.

"Death threats," I conclude in realisation as dad prises Van Coons mouth open gently and pulls out a small black, origami flower from inside. A build up of air realises from the dead mans lungs.

"Yes," dad says grimly. "He was being threatened."

"Bag this up, will you ..." I hear the Sergeant from just now call outside the door as John looks at the flower closely before dad lifts up an evidence bag to slip the paper inside.

"Not by the gas board," John jokes, dryly.

"... and see if you can get prints off this glass," the Sergeant says again, before he finally enters the room. Dad turns and walks towards him.

"Ah, Sergeant," dad says, offering his hand for a handshake. "We haven't met." The officer declines the offer, and plackes his hands in his hips.

"Yeah, I know who you are; and I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence." I raise my eyebrows in disbelif of his attitude - after all, we did just discover a body for him. Dad lowers his hand and hands over the evidence bag, before turning sulky.

"I've phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?" Dad asks.

"He's busy," the Sergeant declares."I'min charge. And it's not Sergeant; it's Detective Inspector. Dimmock." Dad and I look at him in suprise, not expecting him to be at the DI rank at his age. Not to be offensive or anything, but he looks like he should still be at school, let alone in the police force. Dad turns around to share his shock with John as Dimmock walks back out of the room, without giving the body a proper look over, and we follow him out into the living room before he hands the evidence bag containing the paper flower over to forensics.

"We're obviously looking at a suicide," Dimmock states, incorrectly. It's wrong for him to assume at his level of investigation, as he's clearly got no idea of the circumstances of how the body ended up with a bullet through the opposite temple to the victims dominant hand.

"That does seem the only explanation of all the facts," John agrees, narrow mindedly. Dad and I shake off our gloves, before his dad turns back to John.

"Wrong. It's onepossible explanation ofsome of the facts," he says, then turns to Dimmock.

"You've got a solution that you like, but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."

"Like?" Dimmock questions.

"The wound was on theright side of his head," dad begins.

"And?" Dimmock asks stupidly, causing me to roll my eyes at his ignorance.

"Van Coon was left-handed," dad says as he mimes to demonstrate his point, attempting to try and point a gun to his right temple with his left hand. "Requires quite a bit of contortion," dad concludes, outting his arms down.

"Left-handed?"

"Oh, I'm amazed you didn't notice," dad says sarcastically. "All you have to do is look around this flat." He points to the table beside the sofa.

"Coffee table on the left-hand side; coffee mug handle pointing to the left. Power sockets: habitually used the ones on the left. Pen and paper on the left-hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down messages with his left. D'you want me to go on?"

"No," John says tiredly, "I think you've covered it."

"Oh, I might as well; I'm almost at the bottom of the list." John nods as if to say 'yea, I thought you might', as dad points around to the kitchen.

"There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left." He turns to Dimmock with an impatient look on his face. "It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in theright side of his head."

"And it would be a hell lot easier just to shoot himself in the left side of his own head," I pip in. Dad nods in agreement and continues.

"Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him. Only explanation of allthe facts."

"But the gun: why ..."

"He waswaitingfor the killer," dad inturrupts Dimmock. "He'd been threatened." He walks away and puts on his outdoor clothes.

"What?" Dimmock asks, completely puzzled by this new bit of information.

"Today at the bank," John mutters to him. "Sort of a warning."

"He fired a shot when his attacker came in," dad continues.

"And the bullet?" Dimmock questions.

"Went through the open window."

"Oh, come on! What are the chances ofthat?!" The window must of been open, but why? Is it more evidence to the theory I had earlier about them climbing through the windows? It would certainly makd sense.

"Wait until you get the ballistics report," dad continues. "The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun. I guarantee it."

"But if his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?"

"Good! You're finally asking the right questions," dad says, patronizingly as he dramtically slams his hand into his glove and turns to strut out of the room. I follow behind him, and leave John to apologise for our behaviour to the pompus little idiot who thinks he's a DI.

After we've caught a taxi to the place dad's deduced Sebastian Wilkes would be, we enter the resturant, and weave our way through the tables to find him and some colleagues talking together.

"... and he's left trying to sort of cut his hair with a fork, which of course can never be done!" Sebastian laughs, as we reach the table.

"It was a threat. That's what the graffiti meant," dad says bluntly, getting straight to the point.

"I'm kind of in a meeting. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?" Sebastian asks, sounding annoyed.

"I don't think this can wait. Sorry, Sebastian. One of your traders – someone who worked in your office – was killed."

"What?" Sebastian says, looking confused.

"Van Coon. The police are at his flat," dad informs him.

"Killed?" He replies, looking shocked.

"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion," dad says sarcastically. "Still wanna make an appointment? Would, maybe, nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit?" Wilkes places his glass of water back onto the table before he runs his finger along the collar of his shirt, as I've noticed he does as a nervous habit.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Sebastian says as he stands up from the table and leads us down towards the toilets. I wait outside as the boys go in to sort the situation out, and tap into dads phone security. I hear the speakers buzz in awakening, and hear the conversation occuring in my ears. "Harrow; Oxford," I hear Sebastian say, and I'm aware I've already missed some of the conversation. "Very bright guy. Worked in Asia for a while, so ..."

"... you gave him the Hong Kong accounts," John finishes.

"Lost five mill in a single morning; made it all back a week later. Nerves of steel, Eddie had," Wilkes says.

"Who'd wanna kill him?"

"We all make enemies," Sebastian says unhelpfully.

"You don't all end up with a bullet through your temple." I hear the distinct beep of a phone, and for a second I think dad's doing the texting stunt again.

"Not usually," Sebastian replies."'Scuse me." I hear a scuffle as he reaches into his pocket, supposedly to get his phone. "It's my Chairman. The police have been on to him. Apparently they're telling him it was a suicide."

"Well, they've got it wrong, Sebastian," dad speaks for the first time. "He was murdered."

"Well, I'm afraid they don't see it like that," Sebastian argues.

"Seb..." dad says warningly.

" ... and neither does my boss," Wilkes continues, ignoring dad. "I hired you to do a job. Don't get side-tracked." I turn my phone off as the door to the toliets swings open. "Afternoon," he says bitterly to me before he strides off again. A few seconds later, dad and John emerges from the same door.

"Hear anything you liked?" Dad asks me, John looks up in confusion.

"What?" He questions.

"He seemed keen to turn the argument around when he got the message through, which leads me fo believe he's hiding something," I begin, ignoring Johns puzzled stare. "He doesn't trust our judgment, so why employ us?" Dad nods his head thoughtfully.

"Wait," John buts in, "you were listening into our conversation?" I roll my eyes and nod. "But how, the door is sound proof?"

"I'm a hacker, John," I say impatiently. "A phone which is in the room beside me is hardly a difficult job to hack into. I just had to find the connection I've made before now, and listen in via my phone to the sound waves the speaker on Sherlocks phone was giving me."

"You could have just rung him," John suggests.

"And have Sebastian and yourself know I was listening in?" I say, unimpressed. "Not likely. Wilkes could have changed his view if he knew he was being recorded." It's John's turn to roll his eyes. I look to dad and see him smiling proudly at me and my extraordinary skills.


	3. Chapter 3

"We need the opportunity to take a few photos so that we can look back to them at a later date," dad explains as we walk away. "The average human brain only remembers 62% of visiual matters, and I can only remember around 96%, so we need to collect the evidence now before it's removed." I nod in agreement, and pass dad the card I pickpocketed from Sebastian in the reception. He slides it through the scanner and the door clicks open. "Sophie, search the room for anything that looks out of the ordinary," he orders as he walks towards the wall, pulling out his phone as he reaches it.

"Got it, but what do you mean by 'out of the ordianary'?"

"Something that looks out of place in an office which has been untouched for several months," dad mutters as he takes the first photo. "Start in the corner, by the window." Nodding, I stride over, and pull my pocket magnifying glass out. A thin layer of dust lies untouched in the corner, but as I move closer to the windows, the dust fades away, as if someone or something has stepped on it.

"Over here!" I call, and dad pockets his phone and walks over.

"What is it?" He asks as he arrives next to me.

"The artist came through those doors. I believe they lead onto a balcony of sorts." Dad looks up and out of the window, taking in the stunning view of London and the Swiss Re Tower that stands before us. Frowning, he walks over and pulls up to blind to reveal the door that I mentioned lead onto a balcony, and he steps outside. Dad gazes around at the spectacular view without taking in any of the beauty, before he looks down. Jist the sight of him leaning over the edge is enough to make me feel dizy. He looks sideways along the balcony, before he bites his lip thoughtfully and comes back through.

"You're right, the grafitiest certainly entered through that door, but he would have had to climb up the building to get up here." I nod, thoughtfully.

"So what's our next plan?" I ask him as I stand back up.

"We need to see who the message was aimed at," he says thoughtfully. "See the way the desks are arranged?" he asks, pointing through the window to the workers outside. I nod, silently. "The pillars mean that only a handful of people can look into this office, and that can tell us a lot. Our next job is to find the spots that workers can see the graffiti, from that, we will be able to deduce who it was for." I nod in agreement, and we exit the office. On a silent agreement, I take one half of the trading floor, and dad takes the other, and we immediately begin ducking and weaving between the pillars. I keep my eyes fixed on the office as I move through each desk, but all of the angles seem slighly off. I can see most of the room, but the graffiti is in my blind spot. I enter one of the other offices to the side of the main trading floor, the rooms for the Japanise, Hungarian, Russian and French employees, but the view from these rooms completely cuts my line of vision off interally. Dad smiles at me as he enters the room, holding a slip of paper naming a man called Edward Van Coon.

"Found him?" I ask, rhetorically. He nods and we file out of the office. Some of the traders send us some dirty looks for disturbing their work, whilst others smile in amusmant after our little dance around the room.

Soon after, we meet John in the reception and I pull put my phone.

"Two trips around the world this month," John says as we travel the escalator. "You didn't ask his secretary; you said that just to irritate him." Dad gives him a small smile, but doesn't respond. "Howdidyou know?"

"Did you see his watch?" dad asks.

"His watch?" John repeats, looking puzzled.

"The time was right but the date was wrong. Said two days ago. Crossed the dateline twice but he didn't alter it."

"Within a month?" John says."How'd you get that part?"

"New Breitling," dad smiles as he names the make of the watch. From memory, it was a 'Breitling Chronometre Crosswind'. "Only came out this February."

"Okay. So d'you think we should sniff around here for a bit longer?"

"Got everything I need to know already, thanks."

"Hmm?" John says, waiting for dad to explain.

"That graffiti was a message for someone at the bank working on the trading floors. We find the intended recipient and ..." He trails off deliberately to allow John to think for himself, like he's done to me many times.

"... they'll lead us to the person who sent it," John finishes, hesitantly.

"Obvious," dad mutters.

"Well, there's three hundred people up there. Who was it meant for?"

"Pillars," dad says, and John looks lost.

"What?"

"Pillars and the screens," dad explains. "Very few places you can see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And of course the message was left at eleven thirty-four last night. That tells us a lot." Of course! People come and go inthat back at different times, according to the time zone of that country. Someone would have come in around midnight, and they wouldbe the one it was aimed for.

"Does it?" John says, completely clueless as usual.

"Traders come to work at all hours," dad explains as we walk through the revolving glass doors and onto thestreet outside."Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for someone who came in at midnight," he says as he holds the name card up to show John.

"Not many Van Coons in the phonebook." A taxi comes round the corner, and he lifts up his arm to hail it. "Taxi!" He calls loudly, and it comes to a stop in front of us. "Sophia, the address," he mutters to me.

"Er, Docklands, please," I say to the cabbie, ensuring I take a good look at him before I get in, memorising his appearance after our last fiasco.

Twenty minutes later, we step out of the taxi, and I lead them to the block of flats the phonebook says he lives at. Dad steps forward and presses the door buzzer underneath the label 'Van Coon'. Releasing it, he steps back and looks into the security camera above all the buzzers. There's no reply for several seconds, sohe steps forward and presses it again. There's no response.

"So what do we do now? Sit here and wait for him to come back?"

"It'll take too long," I mutter to him as dad looks at the number of buzzers on the wall. "He could be inside already, or gone into hiding since getting the message." John nods as dad steps back, looking at us triumphantly.

"Just moved in," he smiles.

"What?"

"The floor above," he explains."New label." Dad points to another buzzer which says 'Wintle'. Going by the layout of the flats, that would put the position of their flat at being just above Van Coons. The balcony's get bigger as they come lower, which would mean we could get down into the apartment via the balcony.

"They wouldn't have seen Van Coon then yet, would they?" I question, looking at the handwritten label.

"No, I hoping not, anyway."

"How do you know they've just moved in?" John challenges. "Could have just replaced it." I scoff as dad steps forward to press that buzzer and John looks at me hurt.

"No-one ever does that," dad sneers.

"Hello?" The supposed Ms Wintle says over the intercom. Dad turns to the security cameraand puts on his fake innocent voice, as I turn on my role, sighing and looking at my nails.

"Hi! Um, I live in the flat just below you. I-I don't think we've met," he says as he grins flirtingly into the camera.

"No, well, uh, I've just moved in," Ms Wintle replies. Dad turns around to throw a brief 'told you so' glance at John before he turns back to the camera.

"Actually, I've just locked my keys in my flat," dad says, grimacing and biting his lip plaintively.

"D'you want me to buzz you in?"

"Yeah. And can I use your balcony?"

"What?" Ms Wintle says, sounding surprised. "Er yea, come on up." She buzzes us in, and we climb the stairs up onto Van Coons floor.

"I'll wait here, let me in, yeah, Sherlock," John says, stopping.

"Yeah, of course," dad agrees half heartedly, although I know he won't. Once we've reached the next floor, dad leads me down the corridor to Wintle's front door. He knocks hesitantly, and puts on his false smile once more.

"Oh hi," dad says, smiling nervously. Ms Wintle, a young woman in her thirties who has an obsession with collecting teapots and curtains welcomes us in and shows us to the balcony.

"Just shout if you need me," she calls, as she disappears into one of the rooms. Dad walks out onto the balcony, and I follow behind. I look over the rail and see the ground is several floors below. I step back, feeling dizzy. Dad climbs over the side, and I feel my heart skip a beat as he drops down out of sight.

"Sherlock?" I call, croakily.

"I'm alright," he shouts upwards. "Swing your legs over and hang down as far as you can. I'll catch you." I do as he says, despite my heart beating hard against my chest . I drop down, and stumble towards the rail in front of me, but dad catches me before I can tumble over. "You okay?" He asks, seriously before I nod and he swings the balcony door open. It's a good job it is open. I can just imagine how much fun Lestrade and the police could have if we were locked out here.

The apartment is very elegantly decorated, and at a single glance you can tell it belongs to a wealthy bacheolor. There is plush, white leather furniture and glossy black surfaces and minimal clutter. The arrangement of the phone and paper beside it leads me to believe he's left handed. I examine everything I see for any signs that would link him personally to the graffitiest, but I see none. I'm aware of dad walking into the kitchen and pulling open a fridge full of champagne. I frown at the oddity and stand up, just as the door buzzes.

"Sherlock," John calls from outside, thinking that I'm still up with Ms Wintle. Dad ignores him, and moves into the hall. "Sherlock, are you okay?" John repeats to no success. I follow dad into the hallway and glance into a small bathroom which has a few items on the shelf in front of me, incluing an expensive bottle of soap. I shut the door behind me, and follow dad to a larger door which seems to be locked. "Yeah, any time you feel like letting me in," John says again, sarcastically. He'll only get in our way and possibely disrupt the evidence. Dad turns side-on and shoulder-barges the door so that it burst open at first contact. I follow him in but he stops suddenly in front of me. I can't see, but I can deduce it's a body.

"Sophie," dad mutters, "fetch John in." I peer around him to look and see the body sprawled on his bed, a bullet through his right temple and the gun on the floor, which makes me second guess my deduction which I made just now. I walk across the apartment and unlock the door.

"Sophie, I thought you were-"

"No time," I say, inturrupting his useless mutter. "We've found his body." John opens his mouth in shock, and I lead him through to where dad stands stiffly, holding a phone to his ear and talking in a hushed voice to Scotland Yard, possibley Lestrade.

"Just get here as soon as you can," dad hisses quietly.

"He's been delayed," I whisper to John, who nods. Dad slides his phone shut in annoyance and grabs the gun from the floor. He strides back to the balcony and I hear three gunshots.

Barely five minutes later, a whole procession of police cars file into Docklands, and a team of forensics enter the flat. I stand in the hallway, directing some into the bedroom, whilst others mill around in the living room, kitchen and bathroom, dusting fingerprints off of surfaces and taking pictures of the intact lock on the door. A young, plain clothed officer, a Sergant going by his age, enters the flat and looks around, before looking to me.

"Where's the body?" He demands.

"In the bedroom," I say, gesturing down the corridor, then I attempt to lead him to it, but he becomes side-tracked at ordering one of his colleuges to do something.

As I join dad and John in the bedroom, I look around and see the crime scene photographer taking a few photos of Van Coon's body which still lies on the bed. A forensics officer is dusting a few fingerprints off of a mirror. Dad hands me some latex gloves as John stands beside us, just looking at the body with distaste.

"D'you think he'd lost alotof money?" John asks. "I mean, suicide is pretty common among City boys."

"We don't know that it was suicide," dad says, and I go through the evidence we have so far through my mind. Most things do seem to point to suicide, apart from the position of Van Coons gun.

"Come on. The door was locked from the inside; you had to climb down the balcony," John says as dad squats down by a suitcase on the floor.

"Yes, but the same thing happened at the bank, but I think it's impossible for a wall and painting to spray itself," I explain as dad opens the lid and looks at the contents of it.

"Been away three days, judging by the laundry," dad points out. I come over and see a large indentation in the clothing. "Look at the case. There was something tightly packed inside it."

"Thanks – I'll take your word for it," John says uncomfortabley.

"Problem?" Dad asks, and I pause to look up at John

"Yeah, I'm not desperate to root around some bloke's dirty underwear." Dad ignores him and walks over to the foot of the bed, whilst I continue to route through the case.

"Those symbols at the bank – the graffiti. Why were they put there?" Dad asks out loud.

"What, some sort of code?"

"Obviously," dad replies and looks closely at Van Coons shoes and legs, then moves up to his jacket and into the the pockets. "Why were they painted? If you want to communicate, why not use e-mail?"

"Well, maybe he wasn't answering," John suggests.

"Oh good. You follow," dad says.

"No." John gets a look of exasperation thrown at him a dad continues his secondary servey down to Van Coon's hands.

"What kind of a message would everyone try to avoid?" Dad asks, trying to get John to think, but he just frowns in confusion.

"What about this morning – those letters you were looking at?"

"Bills," John says simply.

"Or?" Dad continues, waving at me to answer.

"Death threats," I conclude in realisation as dad prises Van Coons mouth open gently and pulls out a small black, origami flower from inside. A build up of air realises from the dead mans lungs.

"Yes," dad says grimly. "He was being threatened."

"Bag this up, will you ..." I hear the Sergeant from just now call outside the door as John looks at the flower closely before dad lifts up an evidence bag to slip the paper inside.

"Not by the gas board," John jokes, dryly.

"... and see if you can get prints off this glass," the Sergeant says again, before he finally enters the room. Dad turns and walks towards him.

"Ah, Sergeant," dad says, offering his hand for a handshake. "We haven't met." The officer declines the offer, and plackes his hands in his hips.

"Yeah, I know who you are; and I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence." I raise my eyebrows in disbelif of his attitude - after all, we did just discover a body for him. Dad lowers his hand and hands over the evidence bag, before turning sulky.

"I've phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?" Dad asks.

"He's busy," the Sergeant declares."I'min charge. And it's not Sergeant; it's Detective Inspector. Dimmock." Dad and I look at him in suprise, not expecting him to be at the DI rank at his age. Not to be offensive or anything, but he looks like he should still be at school, let alone in the police force. Dad turns around to share his shock with John as Dimmock walks back out of the room, without giving the body a proper look over, and we follow him out into the living room before he hands the evidence bag containing the paper flower over to forensics.

"We're obviously looking at a suicide," Dimmock states, incorrectly. It's wrong for him to assume at his level of investigation, as he's clearly got no idea of the circumstances of how the body ended up with a bullet through the opposite temple to the victims dominant hand.

"That does seem the only explanation of all the facts," John agrees, narrow mindedly. Dad and I shake off our gloves, before his dad turns back to John.

"Wrong. It's onepossible explanation ofsome of the facts," he says, then turns to Dimmock.

"You've got a solution that you like, but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."

"Like?" Dimmock questions.

"The wound was on theright side of his head," dad begins.

"And?" Dimmock asks stupidly, causing me to roll my eyes at his ignorance.

"Van Coon was left-handed," dad says as he mimes to demonstrate his point, attempting to try and point a gun to his right temple with his left hand. "Requires quite a bit of contortion," dad concludes, outting his arms down.

"Left-handed?"

"Oh, I'm amazed you didn't notice," dad says sarcastically. "All you have to do is look around this flat." He points to the table beside the sofa.

"Coffee table on the left-hand side; coffee mug handle pointing to the left. Power sockets: habitually used the ones on the left. Pen and paper on the left-hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down messages with his left. D'you want me to go on?"

"No," John says tiredly, "I think you've covered it."

"Oh, I might as well; I'm almost at the bottom of the list." John nods as if to say 'yea, I thought you might', as dad points around to the kitchen.

"There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left." He turns to Dimmock with an impatient look on his face. "It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in theright side of his head."

"And it would be a hell lot easier just to shoot himself in the left side of his own head," I pip in. Dad nods in agreement and continues.

"Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him. Only explanation of allthe facts."

"But the gun: why ..."

"He waswaitingfor the killer," dad inturrupts Dimmock. "He'd been threatened." He walks away and puts on his outdoor clothes.

"What?" Dimmock asks, completely puzzled by this new bit of information.

"Today at the bank," John mutters to him. "Sort of a warning."

"He fired a shot when his attacker came in," dad continues.

"And the bullet?" Dimmock questions.

"Went through the open window."

"Oh, come on! What are the chances ofthat?!" The window must of been open, but why? Is it more evidence to the theory I had earlier about them climbing through the windows? It would certainly makd sense.

"Wait until you get the ballistics report," dad continues. "The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun. I guarantee it."

"But if his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?"

"Good! You're finally asking the right questions," dad says, patronizingly as he dramtically slams his hand into his glove and turns to strut out of the room. I follow behind him, and leave John to apologise for our behaviour to the pompus little idiot who thinks he's a DI.

After we've caught a taxi to the place dad's deduced Sebastian Wilkes would be, we enter the resturant, and weave our way through the tables to find him and some colleagues talking together.

"... and he's left trying to sort of cut his hair with a fork, which of course can never be done!" Sebastian laughs, as we reach the table.

"It was a threat. That's what the graffiti meant," dad says bluntly, getting straight to the point.

"I'm kind of in a meeting. Can you make an appointment with my secretary?" Sebastian asks, sounding annoyed.

"I don't think this can wait. Sorry, Sebastian. One of your traders – someone who worked in your office – was killed."

"What?" Sebastian says, looking confused.

"Van Coon. The police are at his flat," dad informs him.

"Killed?" He replies, looking shocked.

"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion," dad says sarcastically. "Still wanna make an appointment? Would, maybe, nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit?" Wilkes places his glass of water back onto the table before he runs his finger along the collar of his shirt, as I've noticed he does as a nervous habit.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Sebastian says as he stands up from the table and leads us down towards the toilets. I wait outside as the boys go in to sort the situation out, and tap into dads phone security. I hear the speakers buzz in awakening, and hear the conversation occuring in my ears. "Harrow; Oxford," I hear Sebastian say, and I'm aware I've already missed some of the conversation. "Very bright guy. Worked in Asia for a while, so ..."

"... you gave him the Hong Kong accounts," John finishes.

"Lost five mill in a single morning; made it all back a week later. Nerves of steel, Eddie had," Wilkes says.

"Who'd wanna kill him?"

"We all make enemies," Sebastian says unhelpfully.

"You don't all end up with a bullet through your temple." I hear the distinct beep of a phone, and for a second I think dad's doing the texting stunt again.

"Not usually," Sebastian replies."'Scuse me." I hear a scuffle as he reaches into his pocket, supposedly to get his phone. "It's my Chairman. The police have been on to him. Apparently they're telling him it was a suicide."

"Well, they've got it wrong, Sebastian," dad speaks for the first time. "He was murdered."

"Well, I'm afraid they don't see it like that," Sebastian argues.

"Seb..." dad says warningly.

" ... and neither does my boss," Wilkes continues, ignoring dad. "I hired you to do a job. Don't get side-tracked." I turn my phone off as the door to the toliets swings open. "Afternoon," he says bitterly to me before he strides off again. A few seconds later, dad and John emerges from the same door.

"Hear anything you liked?" Dad asks me, John looks up in confusion.

"What?" He questions.

"He seemed keen to turn the argument around when he got the message through, which leads me fo believe he's hiding something," I begin, ignoring Johns puzzled stare. "He doesn't trust our judgment, so why employ us?" Dad nods his head thoughtfully.

"Wait," John buts in, "you were listening into our conversation?" I roll my eyes and nod. "But how, the door is sound proof?"

"I'm a hacker, John," I say impatiently. "A phone which is in the room beside me is hardly a difficult job to hack into. I just had to find the connection I've made before now, and listen in via my phone to the sound waves the speaker on Sherlocks phone was giving me."

"You could have just rung him," John suggests.

"And have Sebastian and yourself know I was listening in?" I say, unimpressed. "Not likely. Wilkes could have changed his view if he knew he was being recorded." It's John's turn to roll his eyes. I look to dad and see him smiling proudly at me and my extraordinary skills.


	4. Chapter 4

In the taxi, dad hands me the book, and I flick through it, seeing the date stamped in the front. This has the possibility to tell us a lot. The book belongs to the West Kensington Library, and is dated for the day he died. He would of camehere to get the book.

We stride through thedouble doors at the front of the modern building, and I lead them onto a escalator that will lead us to the isle where this book is from. I know this library like the back ofmy hand, as it's often thebuilding of choice for me to go to when I think.

"Date stamped on the book is the same day that he died," dad states, for Johns benefit. He checks the reference number stuck to the bottom of the spine, then wanders down the shelves, taking outbooks and examining them.I look further down, whilst John starts pullingsome out opposite dad.

"Sherlock," Johnmutters, and I spin around to look at thespace where the books were. Another tag sprayed in the same paint as before fills the gap. Seeing this, dad steps forward, and takes a handful of books in each hand, revealing another identical set of graffiti then the one in Sir William's office. Instinctivley, I reach for my phone, and dad takes out his, snapping two or three pictures each of the new graffiti, then we begin to leave without warning John, who has to run to catch up with us.

"Will you please stop doing that please?" He mutters as he catches up, but we step into a cab before he can say any more. We sit in silence, our thoughts churning over in our minds. John looks idly out of the window as we work. Two sets of graffiti, both exactly the same, but what's the link? The murderer needed to send the same message - a threat - to two people, but why?

I step out of the cab first and sprint up the stairs to the printer, printing off the new photos and sticking them above the others on the mirror so that there is only a small gap in the centre that I can see myself in. The boys join me by the fire, and together, we stare at the images.

"So, the killer goes to the bank, leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon; Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in," dad recites, using the information we have to piece together the china fragments. "Hours later, he dies."

"The killer finds Lukis at the library; he writes the cipher on the shelf where he knows it'll be seen; Lukis goes home," John continues.

"Late that night, he dies too," dad adds.

"Whydid they die, Sherlock?" John asks softly. Dadtraces his fingers over the line painted overSir William's eyes.

"Only the cipher can tell us," dad says, tappinghis finger against the photo. We need some advise, something I don't like admitting too, especially when they know I'm the apprentice of a Consulting Detective. Dad's expression sharpens as he too reaches the same conclusion. "Come on John," dad says brightly, standing up and striding towards the door.

"Hmm?" John murmers, following us. I tap a small message into my phone, send it, and recieve one straight back. Smiling, I step into the cab dad hailed before my arriveral, and feed him the address.

We walk across the centre of Trafalgar Square towards the National Gallery, trying to ignore the funny looks we're getting. Obviously John's blog is picking up on followers, and more people are recognising who we are.

"The world's run on codes and ciphers, John," dad states randomly. "From the million-pound security system at the bank, to the PIN machine you took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment."

"Yes," John mutters sarcastically, "okay, but ..."

"... but it's all computer-generated: electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won't unravel it." And we're not speciallised in that.

"Where are we headed?" John asks.

"We need to ask some advice," I grimace.

"What?! Sorry?!" Dad throws him a dark look and John smiles in disbelief.

"You heard her perfectly," dad mutters

"I'm not saying it again," I pipe in.

"You need advice?" John asks skeptically.

"On painting, yes," dad says. "I need to talk to an expert."

Dad and John follow me around the side of the Gallery to where a boy around my age stands, spray-stenciling onto a grey, metal door which leads into the back of the building. The image seems to be of a policeman holding a rifle in his hands, but in the place of his nose, he has a pigs snout. Near the bottom of the image, the graffitiest has sprayed his tag, 'RAZ'. Raz continues spraying as we approach him, a canvas bag overflowing with spray cans at his feet.

"Attractive," I call out as we get nearer. "Very fetching." Raz rolls his eyes at my sarcasim.

"Part of a new exhibition," he smirks, continuing to paint.

"Interesting," dad says, just as intrested as I am.

"I call it 'Urban Bloodlust Frenzy'," Raz chuckles quietly.

"Catchy!" John mutters sarcastically.

"I've got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes round that corner," Raz says, looking around to face us, looking cocky. "Can we do this while I'm workin'?" Dad slips his phone out from his pocket and holds it out to Raz, who turns around and tosses the spray can in his hand to John. Instinctively, John catches the can and looks at us in bewilderment, as if imagining what the policeman around the corner would say if he saw him. Raz takes dads phone and begins to scroll through the pictures of the ciphers from the office and from the library.

"Know the author?" Dad asks, his eyes staring intently at Raz.

"Recognise the paint," he answers, still scrolling. "It's like Michigan; hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc."

"What about the symbols: d'you recognise them?" Dad questions, mentally logging the paint type, as I do too. Raz squints at the images on the screen.

"Not even sure it's a proper language," Raz replies and I sigh in disbelief.

"Two men have been murdered, Raz," dad continues, studying Raz sternly. "Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them."

"What, and this is all you've got to go on?" Raz taunts, vainly."It's hardly much, now, is it?"

"It's all we've got," I say, gritting my teeth with anger. "Two men, Raz,the next could be any of us and the clue to stopping this is in the graffiti!"

"Are you gonna help us or not?" Dad asks, a little more calmly. Raz sighs, beaten.

"I'll ask around," he shrugs.

"Somebody'must'know something about it," dad continues and Raz runs his tongue along his teeth. I hear approaching footsteps, and look around.

"Oi!" The PCSO calls, and the other three look around. Dad instantly grabs his phone back and grabs my hand, tugging me away. Behind, Raz drops a second spray can from his hand and kicks the bags towards John, leaving him to take the blow from the officers. Around the corner, we stop, panting and laughing.

"Any information, however small, you know where to find us," dad speaks to Raz. He nods, then scarpers off.

"Should we help him?" I asks, gesturing around the corner to John and the officers.

"Nah," dad says, smiling. "Let's leave it to him."

We make our way back to 221B in silence, as we quietly mull over the new information that Raz was able to give us. I file the paint type into its respected department, then continue to piece together what we already know about the crime. There is a gang operating in London at the moment which is threatening seemingly random people through a set of ciphers sprayed in places where the person of which it was aimed at would see it and be able to recognize it.. The paint, as we now know, is fairly cheap to buy, coming in at just under £5. That would mean it's easy to get hold of, and that opens up the field of potential buyers of this paint considerably. All we can hope to do now is to wait and see whether these graffiti artists decide to show up again.

Around half an hour later when I emerge from my thoughts, I realize I'm back in Baker Street as dad pins some more images of various pictograms and ciphers onto the mirror. I also realize that I'm holding a book that I don't remember taking, and I look down to read the information on the page. It seems to be a book on codes and ciphers, but my dormant mind obviously didn't find anything of use on the pages before, so I just continue to flick through the book, occasionally glancing up at the mirror to compare an image. Dad stands beside me, mirroring my actions with another book containing similar translations. The slamming of the kitchen door awakens my mind a little, but I continue to hold my head low, appearing to be studying the book in great detail. I hear Johns heavy footsteps and assume that he is quite angry at us leaving him behind. It's just a guess.

"You've been a while," dad announces, not bothering to turn around. John walks a few more steps into the room, and I look up in the mirror to analyse his body language. His shoulders seem rather bunched up, and he holds his fists in clenches, stopping to blink back the anger at dads steady calm as he turns to us.

"Yeah, well, you know how it is," John says tetchily, and my head snaps back down before he notices that I'm trying to hide a smirk. "Custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried, do they?" He begins to pace, and angry grimace on his face as he begins to speak again, getting louder as he voices the consequences of us leaving him behind. "Just formalities: fingerprints, charge sheet; and I've gotta be in Magistrates Court on Tuesday." Dad doesn't seem to be listening.

"What?" he replies, absently, looking up to check another image, but I can see a faint smile playing on his lips.

"Me, Sherlock, in court on Tuesday," John yells, seeming to me to be rather angry. He puts on a rough London accent, not too far off the ones the so called 'gangstas' use on the streets. "They're givin' me an ASBO!"

"Good. Fine," dad continues to half listen, and I watch Johns face tighten.

"You wanna tell your little pal he's welcome to go and own up any time," he says, a little more calmly as he turns to look out of the window. Dad and I slam our books shut in unison.

"This symbol: I still can't place it," dad mutters to himself.

"It's not in here either," I conclude, tossing the book onto the cluttered desk. Dad walks over to John, who's just started to shrug off his donkey jacket and pulls the jacket back over his shoulders.

"No, I need you to go to the police station ..." dad says firmly, wheeling John back around so that he's facing the living room door.

"Oy, oy, oy!" John protests indignantly.

"... ask about the journalist."

"Oh, Jesus!" John says, exasperated as dad grabs his own coat from the back of the door, and throws mine over.

"His personal effects will have been impounded. Get hold of his diary, or something that will tell us his movements," dad continues, unaware or just not caring about Johns argument against going. I don't know why he wouldn't want to go.

"If you look to seeexactlywhat he does after going abroad, then that'll mean we're one step closer to piecing this damn story together," I say as we go downstairs and out onto the street.

"Why, what're you going to be doing?" John asks, obviously still a little annoyed with the both of us, even me!

"Gonna go and see Van Coon's P.A. If we retrace their steps, somewhere they'll coincide," dad tells him as we part ways. On the other side of the road, I see the same Chinese lady from before, but as I glance around to look at the path in front of me, she disappears.

"I would like to see Edward Van Coon's P.A.," dad demands, as he strides up to the desk, flipping open his Police Identity Card which he took from Lestrade.

"Just a minute sir," the woman says, before she buzzes us through to the trading floor. I walk on through first, walking directly to the approximate place of Van Coon's office, where his P.A. sits by her laptop. As we walk in, she doesn't look surprised, so I'm guessing the receptionist phoned ahead to warn her of our arrival.

"Good afternoon," she says, standing up and letting us walk over. "I'm Amanda, Eddie's personal assistant. But, of course, you already know that." Amanda titters slightly. She leans over and taps a few things into her laptop, bringing up an online calendar of Van Coon's meetings and business trips.

"We just need the last two weeks before his death," I say, pacing the room as to take in as much as I can.

"Right, okay," she types a few more things in, and brings up a bigger version of the dates, ones mainly focused on the days around his death. "Ah, here!" she cries out, and we lean over her to look at the screen. "Flew back from Dalian Friday. Looks like he had back-to-back meetings with the sales team."

"Can you print me up a copy?" Dad requests.

"Sure," Amanda replies, leaning over to type a command to print into the computer.

"What about the day he died?" Dad asks. "Can you tell me where he was?"

"Sorry," she apologizes, looking at the screen. "Bit of a gap." I sigh through my teeth and twirl around, frustrated. The calendar shows no entries at all for the day he died, Monday the 22nd. Dad also looks away, annoyed, and something clicks. "I have all his receipts," Amanda realizes, and stands back up to shift through a draw.

"Something isn't right, and I'm not on about how it was that Van Coon didn't have anything written down for the day he died," I mutter to dad. He frowns at me, looking puzzled.

"How d'ya mean," he asks.

"Look at the dates," I say, pointing to the computer. "Van Coon supposedly returns home on the Friday, yet when we come to his suitcase on the Monday, everything's still inside, untouched. Now we know the body was fresh because the graffiti warning was, so why was his bag untouched?" Dad looks up, frustrated, I think, that he didn't notice that. "Doesn't that strike you as odd?" He nods, but there's no time to continue, as Amanda stands back up with a file of crumpled receipts, and spreads them over her desk.

"What kind of a boss was he, Amanda?" Dad questions, probably trying to delve into their relationships. "Appreciative?"

"Um, no. That's not a word I'd use." Amanda says, fiddling around with her ring, a clear sign that she's not telling the full truth. "The only things Eddie appreciated had a big price tag." Dad kneels down on the floor to get a better look at the receipts and I cross to the other end, squatting down where I can still see Amanda, suspicious. I notice a pump-action bottle of luxury hand lotion nearby, and realize that it's the same make as the one in Van Coon's flat.

"Like that hand cream," dad states, obviously noticing the hand cream for himself and latching onto the fact that she may not be telling us the full truth. "He bought that for you, didn't he?" Amanda looks at him in surprise, fiddling around with an emerald hair pin. I shuffle through the receipts, trying to order them in a way that'll give us a vague idea of the things he did leading up to his murder on Monday. I push towards dad several taxi receipts dated for around the 22nd March. He picks one up and hands it up to Amanda."Look at this one. Got a taxi from home on the day he died. Eighteen pounds fifty."

"That would get him to the office," she says slowly, looking down at the piece of card as dad continues to sift through the paperwork.

"Not rush hour; check the time. Mid-morning," dad corrects her. "Eighteen would get him as far as ..." he fades off as he tries to think.

"The West End," Amanda realizes. "I remember him saying." I hand dad a London Underground ticket for Piccadilly with the same date, but of a time later then the taxi. He glances at it before handing that one up to the P.A. as well.

"Underground. Printed at one in Piccadilly."

"So he got a Tube back to the office," Amanda frowns. "Why would he get a taxi into town and then the Tube back?"

"Because he was delivering something heavy," dad says, still sifting through the receipts, but beginning to form a chronological order of events. "Didn't want to lug a package up the escalator."

"Delivering?" Amanda questions, skeptically, obviously wondering what, like all of us, was being delivered.

"To somewhere near Piccadilly Station," dad repeats. "Dropped the package, delivered it and then..." Dad fades off as he finds another receipt, standing up as he looks at it. "... Stopped on his way," he looks up. "He got peckish." Dad turns around and heads for the door. Amanda looks at me in surprise.

"Thanks for the help!" I call as I jog after him.


	5. Chapter 5

We take a cab to the end of the Shaftesbury Avenue, the street of which the postcode on the receipt told us that Eddie Van Coon ate on the day he died, then we begin to walk down the road towards the shop.

"So you bought your lunch from here en route to the station, but where were you headed from?" Dad asks himself out load. I look down the road and see the entrance to China Town, and my mind begins to find links. "Where did the taxi drop you ...?" He begins to spin around as he walks, taking in a full 360 of the streets surrounding this one. Almost immediately and completely predicatbley, he bumps into someone who was approaching from behind, and who seems too engrossed in a book to look where he's going. Dad grunts as they collide, and John looks up, suprised to see us here.

"Right," John begins, ready to explain, but dad begins to quick fire.

"Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died – whatever was hidden inside that case. We've managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information ..."

"Sherlock ..." John says, attemepting to inturupt.

" … credit card bills, receipts," dad continues, blanking John out. "He flew back from China, then he came here."

"Sherlock ..."John tries again, unsucessfully.

"Somewhere in this street; somewhere near. I don't know where, but ..." John gives me a pointed look, and I nudge dad in the ribs as John points to the other side of the road.

"That shop over there." Dad and I look over to the shop he's pointing to then look back to John, frowning. It could work, as my theory is working out.

"How can you tell?" Dad challenges.

"Lukis' diary, " John explains showing us the diary entry. "He was here too. He wrote down the address." How helpfull of him. John turns and heads towards the shop, leaving us confused by such a simple answer.

"Oh," dad mutters, before we follow John into a tourist type shop which consists of mainly decorative cats, hence the name 'Lucky Cat' as the name of the store. Most of the cats are sitting up on their hind legs, one front paw raised in greetings, but some of them have their paws waving back and forth. I frown in confusion of why someone like Lukis would come here after a trip aborad, and I can't even fathom the idea of Eddie doing it. Unless...

The female Chinese shop keeper holds up one of the cats as we pretend to look. "You want lucky cat?

"No," John says polietly, smiling slightly, "thanks. No." Dad looks around at him and smirks.

"Ten pound. Ten pound!" The shop keeper cries, in a feeble attempt for us to buy something that is well overpriced.

"No," John repeats, smiling awkwardly at the woman.

"I think your wife, she will like!" she continues to persuade, and I exchange looks of badly disguised amusemant with dad.

"No, thank you," John repeats firmly, not denying the fact that he has a wife in an attempt to lead everyone away from believing that dad and him are in a realationship."

"I think your daughter, she would like one!" she persists, gesturing to me and my intrest in a set of miniature cats by the window. I turn one over to see the price, and narrow my eyes in disbelief. John looks to me with a look of betrayal and I shrug my shoulders, smiling slyly. He hands the woman the ten pound note from his pocket and tosses the cat my way. I catch it easily and smile fakely at him.

"Thank youdaddy," I laugh. Dad spins around to face me and gives a half smile, before turning back to the clay statues on a rack in the corner. John picks up a small ceramic handle-less cup and turns it over to see the price as I slip the cat into my bag. His hand begins to tremble as he too spots the symbol on the underside of the cup, and going by his expression, it's probably one of the ciphers that we've already seen.

"Sherlock," John mutters, drawing dad over. "The label there."

"Yes, I see it," dad murmers in reply as I walk over to the pair.

"Exactly the same as the cipher," he points out unnecesserally, clearing his throat awkwardly and putting the cup back. Something in dads mind clicks into place, and he lifts his head in awareness and walks out of the shop and down the street.

"It's an ancient number system!" Dad says in frustration of not realising it before. "Hangzhou." I groan in annoyance and rub my temples, matching the name with the symbols. "These days, only street traders use it. Those were numbers written on the wall at the bank and at the library." He walks over to a greengrocer's and looks at the produce outside which is displayed in boxes. Dad picks up various signs, checking the symbols against the English. "Numbers written in an ancient Chinese dialect." I follow him over to check the hand written signs for myself, and see one which matches the graffiti. John sees it too.

"It's a fifteen!" John cries. "What we thought was the artist's tag – it's a number fifteen."

"And the blindfold – the horizontal line?" Dad questions, looking around. "That was a number as well." He shows us a price tag which has the same almost-horizontal line at the top and '£1' written below it. "The Chinese number one, John," he grins triumphantly.

"We've found it!" John says in disbelief and smiles. Dad turns and walks away, but as I turn to walk with him, I see the same Chinese woman who was outside 221B the other day. She lifts up her camera and takes a photo in our direction, then someone walks inbetween us, obscuring her from view for a second. By the time he's past, she's gone. Coincedince? Or are we being followed?

We cross over into a restaurant oppositeThe Lucky Cat and take a seat by the window inside. I take a paper napkin from the end of the table and begin to jot down the Hangzhou number alongside the English equivalents. Dad copies me, probably noting down someextra notes which will lead us to the answer as John sits opposite us, writinghis own notes into a small notebook.

"Two men travel back from China," John begins, starting to form a timeline in his head and voicing it."Both head straight for the Lucky Cat emporium. What did they see?"

"It's not what they saw," dad corrects him,"it's what they both brought back in those suitcases."

"And you don't mean duty free," Johnjokes dryly as ayoungChinese waitress brings over a plate of food for John."Thank you," he mutters in thanks.

"So what did they bring back?" I murmur as the girl walks away."Somethingof value? A heist maybe?" Isuggest.

"Unlikely," dad says thoughtfully, "but something along those lines maybe.Think about what Sebastian told us; about Van Coon – about how he stayed afloat in the market."

"Lost five million ..." John says in realisation.

"... made it back in a week," dad finishes.

"Mmm," John agrees, beginning onhis food.

"That's how he made such easy money," dad continues.

"He was a smuggler," John says in realisation, scooping up another forkfull. "Mmm."

"A guy like him – it would have been perfect," dad states. "A business man making frequent trips to Asia. And Lukis was the same. A journalist writing about China."

"Mmm," John murmers to show he's still listening.

"Both of them smuggled stuff out, and the Lucky Cat was their drop-off."

"But why did they die?" John questions, voicing my own thoughts."I mean, it doesn't make sense. If they both turn up at the shop and deliver the goods, why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event, after they'd finished the job?" Dad pauses thoughtfully for a few seconds, and I try to pick the question apart. There's no feesable reason of why a gang which contracted smugglers would threaten and then kill two of their workers unless they had taken something which wasn't theirs to take. Either one of the men could have that item, but the gang doesn't know who, so they kill them both. Dad smiles, obviously finding the same answer for himself.

"What if one of them was light-fingered?" Dad suggests.

"How d'you mean?" John questions.

"Stole something; something from the hoard."

"And the killer doesn't know which of them took it, so he threatens them both," John says in realisation."Right." Dad looks out of the window and towards the shop opposite, then his gaze lowers to the ground. I follow his line of sight down and narrow my eyes as I see something out of place.

"Remind me: when was the last time that it rained?" Without waiting for a reply, he gets up and leaves the restaurent. A few moments later, I stand up and following him out, leaving John to chose between his almost untouche meal and us. "Sophie, weather forcast for the week."

"It hasn't rained since Monday," I say, without looking down at my phone. "The Yellow Pages was sent out the same day." Dad nods thoughtfully as John joins my side, and he runs a finger along the sodden pages of the book. The plastic wrapper is torn at the top, and small droplets of water trickle down the smooth surface.

"It's been here since Monday," Dad repeats my words for Johns benefit, before standing back up and pressing the doorbell of the flat. The name tag above tells us that the owner of this place is a young female called Soo Lin Yao, but inhabitant doesn't reply. Dad spots something to the right, and heads towards it, dissapearing into a small alleyway beside the flat. I follow behind dad and we look up at the windows, looking for a way to get in.

"No-one's been in that flat for at least three days," dad states, again, for Johns benefit.

"Could've gone on holiday," John suggests and I roll my eyes at his lack of obsevational skills.

"D'youleave your windows open when you go on holiday?" Dad remarks, looking up again and seeong a cantilevered metal fire escape above us. I step back as dad does a short run at it, and he sucessfully grabs hold of it on his jump, pulling it down towards us until it reaches the ground. I follow quickly behind him as we sprint up the steps and towards the open window. As we reach the top, the stairs swing back to its orignal position, and John realises that he's missed his opportunity and is too small to reach to pull down the stairs and calls after us. Ignoring him, I wait for dad to get through the window but he gives a muffled cry of alarm as he reaches the other side. I prepare myself for the worst, readying myself in a defensive stance. "Someone else has been here," dad calls out of the window and I relax a little, beginning to climb through the window. He holds a vase in one hand, and helps me through withthe other before putting thevase backonto the table. I look down to the place where the vase would have landed, and see a wet patch where the lastperson knocked thevase over. "Somebody else broke into the flat and knocked over the vase just like I did," dad continues,quieter than before. I look around the roomto look for anysigns of disturbance whilst dadopens and sifts through the washing machine, looking for anothersign of time. Downstairs, the doorbell rings and, like before, we ignore it. Dad closes the washing machine and reaches for a towel whilst I step forward into another room. The bathroom is pretty basic, but it also contains a shelf of disturbed shampoo bottles. The door slams shut behind me, blocking out the only light source in the windowless room. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I realise I'm not alone. We never were, from the moment we entered this house. We were being followed. That's why the window was open. That's why Soo Lin Yao isn't here. Because the killer never left. I prepare myself for the attack, but a hand covered with a soft hankercheif type material clamped my mouth, leaving me unable to shout out. He, going by the strength and the size of the hands, holds my arms behind my back as I squim about, then shoots a cold liquid into my neck. My eyes close. My heart stops. I drop to the floor, lifeless.


	6. Chapter 6

"Sophia?"I hear a voice call out from far away and it echoes through the ominous darkness. I think I've heard the voice before, but my mind is so clouded with a throbbing pain that I can't concentrate on anything. I don't know who or where I am and I attempt to open my eyes to go and investigate. Perhaps this is what it feels like to be dead, I think to myself as my eyes close again. Perhaps the body I inhabited before was an awful person and so I'm in hell - trapped forever in a situation of absolute craziness. I don't remember what happened, but I identify the source of the pain to be in my back as the constant throbbing begins to soften as I get used to it. A small slither of light burns my thick eyelids for a moment before it dissapears again, just as quickly as it arrived. For the first time since I gained consencness, I feel alone, as if somebody or something left me through that strip of light. I hear a struggle nearby and goosebumps form on my arms as I hear the same, familiar voice, calling out for help. Motivated, my eyes open easily and I find that I'm lying on the floor of somebodys bathroom, and my the clouds dissapear from my brain. I was drugged into a state of wooziness to distaract me from the next murder. My dad. Stumbling to my feet, I fling open the door, my head still spinning from the after effects of the drug. I blink away the sudden light which peneteates my delicate retenas and leap upon the attacker from behind as dads eyes begin to close. I kick his popleatil fossa and he falls to the ground, but he grabs my hand and pulls me down with him. Still weak, I'm unable to save myself from a hard landing as the assailent regains his stance. Dads struggles get weaker and I'm unable to do anything because of the drug. I squint away the stars and attempt at making a deduction about him to try and work out how to stop him. This is a young man with obvious levels of athletic training. His size suggests a more graceful type of sport, so he's an acrobat, one used to working with ropes by the look of his hands. This is the one who left the messages and who killed Van Coon and Lukis.

To my suprise, as dad drops his hands from the scarf wrapped around his neck restricting his breating, the attacker too realeses his grip on the piece of silk. Downstairs, the doorbell rings, but I realise it must only be John, angrily ringing the doorbell for us to let him in. Hearing the sound and realising that backup is not far away, the assailent shoves something into dads coat pocket as his eyes begin to close and runs off. Dad begins to choak and cough, so I help him tug off the scarf and to roll him over into a position that will get more oxygen into his lungs. Dad gets onto his hands and knees, still breathing raspily as the attacker disappears through the beaded curtains into the kitchen and through the window once more. I help him sit up on his heels as he rummages through his pockets and pulls out a small, black, origami flower, similar to the ones wefoundin the two apartments. Dad looksatit fora second before he stumbles to his feet once more.

"Sophie," he croaks, "are you okay? Can you walk?" Inod weaklythen stand up myself.

"Yea, I'm fine," I reasure him, my voice almost giving up on me. "He drugged me as a distraction to get to you. I'm sorry, I couldn't think straight for a minute or two. I don't know howyou can stand those things." He shrugs carelessly, but then grips me by the shoulders and looks me sternly in the eyes.

"Go to Molly for a test, tell her what happened, and make sure you get it out of your system." I nod, showing that I understand, but my head is spinning. "I'll get you a cab, but then I'll have to leave you." I smile reasuringly and nod.

"No, it's fine," I say as we head for the stairs. "I'll catch up with you later." Dad opens the door downstairs to reveal an exasperated John, who glares at us in annoyance.

"The, uh, milk's gone off and the washing's starting to smell," dad says, missing out our attack to protect John. "Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago."

"Somebody?" John questions and dad nods, his voice still rough.

"Soo Lin Yao. We have to find her."

"We think there's a connection between her and the killer," I tell him as dad bends down. "If we can find her before he does, then we have a chance of learning some more about what Van Coon and Lukis was smuggling."

"But how, exactly?" Dad picks somethingoff of the ground, addressed to the young female.

SOO LIN

Please ring me

tell me you're

OK

Andy

I continue to watch as dad unfoldsthe envelope and I nudge in beside him to see what the text printed in the bottom right hand corner. How convenient.

NATIONAL

ANTIQUITIES

MUSEUM

"Maybe we could start with this," dad suggests, as he walks out, holding the door open for me to follow.

"You've gone all croaky,"John tells dad as we walk down the road, looking for a taxi for me."Are you getting a cold?"

"I'm fine," dad replies, coughing. A taxi comes down the road and dad holds out his hand to hail it. John steps forward, as if to get in, but dad pushes him back. "No, this one's for Sophie. She just needs to go somewhere," he says blankly, "for school." I nod, smiling convincingly to John.

"You sure she's alright on her own?" Dad and I both give him a look and he spins away in exasperation. "Oh, I forgot, Sherlockthe second!" Dad looks me in the eyes as I spin around, now seated in the cab.

"Meet me in the Museum when you're done, I might need you." I nod briefly before dad hands the cabbie the money and the address, then sends me off.

I stand in one of the labs, awaiting my test results, tentatively sipping a hot cup of coffee, ignoring the burning feeling as it scolds my mouth. My head isstillpounding with the effects the drug had on me, but I can focus now, and I can feel my strength coming back to me slowly. The doors behind me open, and I spin around, putting down my mug as Molly comes in, holding a sheet of official looking paper.

"How's it looking?" I ask her as she draws closer, her face unreadable.

"Could be better," she admits. "The drug you were injected with wasn't addictive and it's a common medicine given outto patients. In small doses, it's harmless, but as you discovered, very dangerous if not carefully measured." I nod, allowing the information to sink in.

"How long until it's out of my system?" I question, my fingers playing around with the handle on my cup.

"If you keep on drinking, then I estimate it'll be out in around five minutes. I'd recommend you leave just after, to make sure you're able to think for yourself outside." I nod once more before taking the mug up again and taking another sip.

"Thank you," I say, surprising myself at the spontaneity of my outburst. Molly alsolooks taken aback, not remembering the last time I used my manners towards her.

"Oh," she says, brushing away a stray hair from her eyes, "oh, it's fine." She places the results beside me, then exits, leaving me still puzzled over why I thanked her. I take out my phone and tap a small text to dad before I follow her out, my mug now empty.

I find dad and John standing with a geeky looking twenty year old male near the Chinese antiques and slip in beside John as dad paces around, looking at the different displays.

"When was the last time that you saw her?" dadasks him as the young male standsawkwardly in thecorner.

"Three days ago," he replies, "um, here at the museum." Dad stops for a moment to look at atall glass case containing some clay teapots. I join him and see that there is a difference between the shine on the teapots, and that most of them are dull, but one is shiny. "This morning they told me she'd resigned just like that." Dad movesalong to look at somemore traditional Chinese artworks,but I stay put, taking in the information inside the case. "Just left her work unfinished," the man finishes, and dad turns to face him.

"What was the last thing that she did on her final afternoon?" The man thinks for a moment but then remembers something, and begins to lead us down towards the basement archives.

"What do we know then?" I question dad quietly as we follow him. "That this guy Andy had a crush on Soo Lin..."

"He's been close to her ever since she joined," dad tells me. "More or less from the first time she walked through these doors, he's been following her around like a puppy."

"Not a possible murderer though, is he?"

"This man has clearly just left collage after studying History where he was rejected by several women," dad begins showing off and I roll my eyes and cough. "Certainly not an audacious criminal mastermind," he finishes as we arrive in the archive.

"She does this demonstration for the tourists – a-a tea ceremony," Andy explains as he switches the lights on and leads us in. "So she would have packed up her things and just put them in here." He stops us by an open stack and starts spinning the handle at the end to widen the gap. I quickly glance inside, but see nothing out of the ordinary, so I spin around, beginning to investigate what the young woman would have seen on the night of her dissapearance. It doesn't take me long before my eyes fall upon a large statue of a nude woman.

"Sherlock," I call quietly, and he spins around joining my side as we stare at her. The horizontal line - the number one, as we now know - is sprayed across the womans eyes, and the number fifteen in Hangzou is sprayed below it. My eye narrow as I realise the numbers have swapped, but brush over that thought as Andy and John join us.

"Sherlock, isn't that-?"

"Yes," I reply, answering for my dad as Andy looks puzzled.

"I don't understand," he says, walking around the statue. "Why have they painted over her?"

"Because this is a warning," dad tells Andy, and I look to him in surprise. "Andy, did Soo Lin ever talk about her family and her personal life to you?"

"No," he tells us in realisation. "She always declined any opportunity of going out and I always put it down to her social life. Are you saying, Mr Holmes, that Soo Lin is in danger?" Dad doesn't reply. That's exactly what he's implying. She's still alive, which is why the killer was at her flat. He's looking for her, and we have no idea where she is.

"We have to get to Soo Lin Yao," dad tells us as we leave the Museam a while later, after collecting some final data.

"If she's still alive," John says negitavely.

"Sherlock!" someone calls and we turn to see Raz running towards us.

"Oh, look who it is," John says, looking dissaprovingly at Raz.

"Found something you'll like," he tells me and dad before turning and leading us away. Dad and I follow immediately, whereas John stays behind us, following at a slower pace.

We walk for about ten minutes in silent determination of finding our next clue, and possibley getting closer to solving this case all together. John seems to still be fuming over us walking with the person that is getting him sent to court, and voices this problem as we cross the Hungerford bridge,heading towards the south of the Themes.

"Tuesday morning, all you've gotta do is turn up and say the bag was yours," he says.

"Forget about your court date," dad tells him as Raz smirks.

"Oh, really!" John says in amusmant. "I'm being sent to court for something that I have never done, nor do I have any intention of doing, yet the culprit of this entire problem is walking right in front of me!" The hairs on the back of my neck stand up again, sensing that someone is watching us again. John continues to protest but I blank him out until we reach the South Bank Skate Park, where he finally sileneces himself. Raz leads us across the under-croft as a boy around my age does some sort of special trick on his bike.

"Dude, that was rad!" I hear a girl call as I spin around, taking in the amount of grafiti on the walls.

"If you wanna hide a tree in the middle of a forest, this is the best place to do it, wouldn't you say?" dad questions, metaphorically."People would just walk straight past, not knowing, unable to decipher the message." Raz stops and points to an area on the heavily-graffitied walls.

"There," he says as another shout rings out from behind us. "I spotted it earlier." Hidden between all the other colours and types of paint, there are some other Chinese symbols, different to the ones that we've already found. They've already been partially obscurred by other artist tags and other pointless images.

"Theyhave been in here," dad mutters as I take a picture of the wall. "And that's the exact same paint?"

"Yeah," Raz confirms and dad turns to John.

"John, if we're going to decipher this code, we're gonna need to look for more evidence."

"We should split up, that way we'll cover more ground," I suggest and dad nods.

"We'll check the tracks, you hang about here with Raz for a bit and look for some more evidence. You blend in better down here." I nod, confirming I've understood. Once the boys have left, I'm left to to the wolf whistles of idiots.


	7. Chapter 7

"Hey, beautiful, d'wanna come back with me?" one of the boys call to me. He has an Asian complexion on a hardened face, and looks older than the others here. "I've got something you might wanna try." I ignore him, my bones tingling as I plan my moves if he was to touch me.

"Push off, Lee!" Raz calls to the boy. "She's with me." Lee falls to the authority of Raz, and leaves the park, pushing the girl to the side in his fury. I relax, and start to examine the walls. "You can't stay long," Raz mutters to me. "He'll come back." I look behind me to the spot where he vanished.

"I'll be ready," I tell him, turning back to the wall. We search for about five minutes without findig anything, then Raz gives out a cry.

"Here, look." I move over to where he stands, and take a step back.Paint dots the wall, forming another symbol, but not a number. I recognise the word as a type of simplified Chinese, but it takes me a minute before it clicks.

"This is the same paint?" I asks Raz as he runs a finger along the wall.

"Yeah, and it's still wet." He looks around. "They're obviously still here. What does it mean?"

"It's '死亡', means death." I follow Raz' gaze over to the exit, the way dad and John went, my mind pulling pieces together to form a story. I'm panicing, I need to calm down. I invision a shadow, symbolising my fear, being wrapped up in chains and being thrown into the back of my mind, let to bubble over somewhere it won't hurt. "The boy who left just now, Lee, how long has he been coming here?"

"Er," he shrugs, thinking. "I dunno, just moved. Came over from Hong Kong a couple of months back." I pocket my phone and run towards the exit, dodging the bikes as I dart through the ramps. "Soph, where you going?" I turn my coat collar up as I reach the pathway along the side of the river, hopping over a few fences and dropping over a brick wall to land on the sides of the train tracks. I flip a torch from out of my pocket and shine it along the rails, following the indents in the gravel that dad and John made on their way. My phone buzzes a text alert in my pocket and I take it out, examinging the sender. John.

'Join us down on the tracks. I think I've found something.' I start tracing his phone, and it leads me in the opposite direction. My foot collides with a can and I bend down, holding the torch in my mouth as I turn it over in my hand. Michigan, yellow. I sniff it quickly, and find the fumes still fresh on the nozzle. Footsteps crunch behind me as I stand back up, and I spin around quickly, my torch now threatingly positioned in my hand.

"Woah," John says, putting his hands up in surrender. "It's only me."

"John!" I say, relaxing. "Where's Sherlock?"

"I was going to ask you the same question," he frowns. "Hasn't he texted you?" I shrug.

"No, the only text I got was from you..." I fade out, the panic struggling against it's chains. "Oh god!" I start running, hoping that I'm not corrrect. I hear the dialing tone of John's phone behind me and feel comforted that he's nearby. Dad isn't answering his phone. On the one hand, it's not out of the ordinary for him not to answer, but it also worrys me. If John has found some fresh evidence, then it means that Lee is still out here. A large rail freigt comes into view, and I see dad examinging it beside the container. The worry flushes through me, and I slow down to a trot.

"Answer your phone!" John calls to him. "I've been calling you! I've found it." We turn around and head off in the opposite direction, my coat billowing out behind me as I run.

"What did you find?" dad asks as we go.

"Death," I tell him, showing him the picture I took. "I though originally that it was for you or for John, but now I think it's for Soo Lin. She's going to die tonight."

"There, look," John calls back to us as we slow down near a large wall. "This is it." He leads us over to it so that we're standing in front as his mouth drops open in surprise.

"John..." I say, cautious that John may have been hallucinating.

"It's been painted over!" John insists. Dad and I shine our torches over the wall as John continues to stare at the wall in disbelief. "I don't understand. It-it was here..." he says, stumbling backwards, "... ten minutes ago. Isawit. A whole load of graffiti!" I walk over to the wall, running a finger along the brickwork and examining the paint that stains my flesh.

"Still wet," I mutter, spinning around and looking for the guilty.

"Somebody doesn't want me to see it." Dad turns around and grabs the sides of John's head in both hands.

"Hey, Sherlock," John protests, "what are you doing ...?"

"Shh, John, concentrate," dad orders him. "I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes."

"No, what? Why? Why?" Dad drops his hands onto his shoulders. "What are you doing?!" Dad starts to lead him around in a small circle, trying to excercise John's visual memory so that he can recall the symbols. They will be inside, somewhere, but they'll be buried deep within the rubbish that ordinary people keep in their brains.

"I need you to maximise your visual memory," dad tells him as I try to rub the paint away. "Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?"

"Yeah," John lies.

"Can you remember it?"

"Yes, definitely."

"Can you remember the pattern?"

"Yes!" John insists, but I'm unsure about how much of that it true. It's unlikely that he's remembered much at all.

"Howmuchcan you remember?"

"Well, don't worry ..." John begins.

"Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate."

"Yeah, well, don't worry – I remember all of it." I frown in disbelief at him.

"Really?" dad asks, with just as much sceptisim.

"Yeah, well at least Iwould ..." he says as he pulls himself free from dads grip, "if I can get to my pockets!" He reaches for his jacket pocket and pulls out his phone. "I took a photograph." He hands the phone to dad and shows us the picture and the flash of the photo which has illuminated the wall so that we can see the the symbols clearly.

"Perfect!" I say as dad looks away in embarrasment of not asking John if that's what had happened. "Brilliant!" I spin around, one thing nagging at the corners of my mind. Why did Lee paint over the wall if he'd seen John take the picture?


	8. Chapter 8

Back at Baker Street, I bring John's picture up on my laptop and start cross sectioning bits off. Once they're at a suitable size, I send a message to the printer to begin printing. John pins the pictures to the mirror, whilst dad writes the numerical value beside each symbol. Once all the symbols have printed, I stand up by the fireplace, focusing my mind on the images in front of me. John sits down at the desk, his head in his hands as he nods off and dad joins my side, closing the book he used to translate the numbers and tossing it aside. I scan through the numbers, searching for a code type or pattern in the way the numbers are spread. Beside me, dad notices something at the same time as I do.

"Always in pairs, John," dad says, jerking John awake. He blinks and turns around so he's looking at us, squinting against the light.

"Hmm?"

"Numbers come with partners." John ignores him, looking blankly around at the flat instead.

"God, I need to sleep," he groans. I feel wide awake, the adrenaline of steadily getting closer to finding the answer encouraging me onwards.

"Why did he paint it so near the tracks?"

"No idea," John mutters in reply, barely awake.

"Thousands of people pass by there every day."

"It's a wide audience," I say, "and not everybody who goes past will be able to translate the symbols. We thought it was graffiti at first, so anybody else would just presume that as well. Obviously the smugglers use that line for trading, so they'll be the ones the message is aimed at and they'll be able to decode it."

"Of course," dad says in realisation, my comment triggering a new line of thought in his mind. "Of course! He wants information. He's trying to communicate with his people in the underworld. Whatever was stolen, he wants it back." I nod, glad that he gets what I was implying as he runs his finger across the symbols. "Somewhere here in the code."

"I can't see any lettering in there. Perhaps it's a book code," I suggest, and he nods, pulling three photos off of the wall and heading towards the door.

"We can't crack this without Soo Lin Yao."

"Oh, good!" John says sarcastically, sleepily getting up to follow.

"It's highly possible that this is a book code," dad says as we slip onto the street. "They're easy to get hold of but incredibly hard to crack unless you have the right book. Soo Lin, the graffiti was sprayed so she could see. She has a copy of the book and can help us decode the message." We hail a cab and order the taxi to take us back to the museum. We need to find Soo Lin and the last place she was seen will help.

I jump out of the cab as it pulls up to a stop on Trafalgar Square and head straight into the building. We search around for a bit until Andy sees us and walks on over.

"Two men who travelled back from China were murdered, and their killer left them messages in the Hangzhou numerals," dad says, skipping the pleasantries.

"Soo Lin Yao's in danger. Now, that cipher - it was just the same pattern as the others," John continues. "He means to kill her as well."

"Have you even the slightest idea where she is?" I finish.

"Look, I've tried everywhere: um, friends, colleagues," he says, shrugging. "I-I don't know where she's gone. I mean, she could be a thousand miles away." I walk away in exasperation, looking for a change in sequence. The teapots inside a glass case display takes my eye and I stride over.

"Sherlock," I call quietly and dad turns around, his eyes narrowing as he reaches the cabinet.

"What are you looking at?" John questions.

"Tell me more about those teapots," dad demands as he walks over, pointing at the display.

"Th-the pots were her obsession," Andy begins, stuttering nervously. "Um, they need urgent work. If-if they dry out, then the clay can start to crumble. Apparently you have to just keep making tea in them." I nod my head in agreement as I bend down to look more closely at the shelf. I've studied Chinese antiquities and I know the ritual to keep the teapots in shape.

"Yesterday, only one of those pots was shining," dad says, noticing now what I found. "Now there are two."

"But that would mean she'd been here..." John says, his eyebrows furrowing as he turns around, expecting her to pop up from behind a case somewhere.

"And there's nobody else working on them?" I question, turning around to analyse Andy.

"N-no, she was the only one working on this particular project," he tells me. "She was the expert on the Chinese antiques that were coming in." I nod, frowning. If one teapot appears on the shelf shiny the following day, then that means she comes here during the night. I look at my watch to check to time and bite my lip, unsure what to do.

"Show me where she worked," I demand and dad and I stand up straight as Andy starts leading us away. "How am I doing?" I ask dad as we walk down the corridor.

"You're asking the right questions," he tells me and I smile with pride. That's as close to a compliment that I'm going to get now. "And you're thinking logically. You're getting better," he concludes, smiling down at me. As we arrive in the room, Andy flicks the light on, illumination the large space.

"Th-this was her desk," Andy explains, leading us over to one around the middle. "When she wasn't doing the demonstrations, she'd come here." I thank him and he leaves us.

"So what are we doing now?" John questions as the door closes and dad looks around at the desk.

"Now, we wait."

The sunlight begins to filter out of the room and I sit up from my place on the floor, and I nudge John's slumped figure.

"It's time," I say, watching dad slip out the door. He sits up, and moves over into the corner whilst I stand up, checking around to make sure the coast is clear. The plan is for dad to follow Soo Lin Yao here so that it seems that she is alone, but then dad is going to creep back in and then we'll have the element of surprise on our side. We sit in the corner for about a minute, our breathing sounding loud in the empty room.

"Are you sure he knows what he's doing?" John asks me through a whisper.

"Probably not," I tell him, smiling. "He'll just wing it and hope for the best." John nods in the darkness and we fall silent as the shadow of a woman appears at the door, holding a teapot. We hold our breath as she slips inside, setting herself up at her desk. As she pours the tea into the teapot and then picks the lid, carefully stroking around the rim, the outline of a very familiar mass of curls appears at the door. Unaware of this, Soo Lin continues her restoration of the pot, picking up the teapot and pours some of the hot liquid inside into a pair of cups which are waiting on her desk and I see dad slip through the door. As she swishes the tea around to cover the edges of the pot, dad creeps up beside her.

"Fancy a biscuit with that?" Dad says loudly, making Soo Lin jump, gasping in fright as she drops the teapot from her trembling finger. Dad's reactions are quicker then hers as he squats down, catching the teapot easily before it his the floor. "Centuries old," he says, looking up at her. "Don't wanna break that. " He straightens up slowly to make sure he doesn't startle her and I stand up from my hiding place as dad hands back the teapot. He flicks a switch on the desk, turning on the the lights to illuminate their faces as John and I walk over. "Hello," dad say, smiling slightly at her. I join dads side and John arrives beside me. "Sherlock by the way, Sherlock Holmes," he introduces himself. "This is my daughter -"

"Sophia Holmes," I say, extending a hand.

"Yes," dad continues as he sends me a glare, "and this is my colleuge John Watson." I notice he's corrected himself to what he said to Sebastian a few days ago. John shakes hands with Soo Lin.

"Why are you here?" she asks us as she draws her hands in. "How did you find me?"

"We saw the cipher on the statue in the basement," I tell her kindly. "There are several others dotted around London." Soo Lin nods as dad pulls up a stool beside her.

"You saw the cipher?" she questions. "Then you know he is coming for me."

"You've been clever to avoid him so far," dad praises her gently.

"I had to finish ... to finish this work," she explains, gesturing to the teapots. "It's only a matter of time. I know he will find me."

"Who is he?" dad questions. "Have you met him before?"

"When I was a girl, living back in China," she tells us, nodding. "I recognise his ... 'signature'."

"The cipher," dad puts in.

"Onlyhewould do this," she continues. "Zhi Zhu." My eyes narrow as an immediate translation appears inside.

"Zhi Zhu?" John questions.

"The Spider," dad mutters as Soo Lin places her right foot upon he opposite knee, nimbley unlacing her plimsole and slipping it off. On her heel is a black tattoo of a lotus flower inside a circle. My eyes narrow even further as I recognise it.

"You know this mark?" she asks dad.

"Yes," dad comfirms. "It's the mark of a Tong."

"Hmm?"

"Ancient crime syndicate based in China," dad explains and John nods his head in understanding, turning back to listen to Soo Lin.

"Every foot soldier bears the mark; everyone who hauls for them." I nod, seeing the obvious but unpredictable.

"'Hauls'?" John questions and she looks up at him. His eyes widen.

"Y-you mean you were a smuggler?" She lowers her gaze in regret and slips her shoe back on to hide the brand which has owned her life.

"I was fifteen," she begins. "My parents were dead. I had no livelihood; no way of surviving day to day except to work for the bosses."

"Who are they?" dad asks.

"They are called the Black Lotus," she says. "By the time I was sixteen, I was taking thousands of pounds' worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong. But I managed to leave that life behind me. I came to England." She smiles slightly as a tear slips down her cheek. "They gave me a job here. Everything was good; a new life."

"Then he came looking for you," dad says insensitivley.

"Yes," she confirms, swallowing before continuing tearfully. "I had hoped after five years maybe they would have forgotten me, but they never really let you leave," I nod my understanding. I know how smuggling groups such as The Black Lotus opperate. Stay, or die. It's the only way they can insure that their movements aren't told of. "A small community like ours – they are never very far away." She lifts a hans to wipe the tears away. "He came to my flat," she continues, chocking slightly as another slips down her face. "He asked me to help him to track down something that was stolen."

"And you've no idea what it was?" John questions, but she shakes her head.

"I refused to help."

"So you knew him well when you were living back in China?" John confirms, leaning forward. Soo Lin nods sadly.

"Oh yes," she looks up at dad, her eyes glittering with the pain. He's my brother." John straigtens up in surprise and dad nods thoughtfully. I don't know what to think. "Two orphans," she continues, the tears still slipping down freely. "We had no choice. We could work for the Black Lotus, or starve on the streets like beggars," I nod as she pauses,giving her the encouragment to keep talking. "My brother has become their puppet, in the power of the one they call Shan – the Black Lotus general. I turned my brother away," she explains, blinking away more tears as she speaks. "He said I had betrayed him. Next day I came to work and the cipher was waiting." Dad takes the photographs from his jacket pocket and lays them down on the table.

"Can you decipher these?" he asks softly and Soo Lin leans foward, pointing to the number beside Sir William's portrait.

"These are numbers."

"Yes, I know," dad says and Soo Lin points to another picture, one taken of a close up of the portrait.

"Here: the line across the man's eyes – it's the Chinese number one."

"And this one is fifteen," dad says, pointing to the first picture to show that we already know the numeral system. "But what's the code?"

"All the smugglers know it," she tells us. "It's based upon a book ..." I smile slightly, but my joy is short lived as the lights go out around us. Soo Lin looks up in dread and fear as dad stands up, glancing around sharply. "He's here," she says softly, her face full of fear. "Zhi Zhu. He has found me." Dad sprints off across the room as he hears something.

"Sh-Sherlock," John calls urgently. "Sherlock, wait!" Dad charges out of the room and John turns to Soo Lin, holding her as first priority as I fumble for my gun. "Come here," he says, holding his hand out and leading us across the room towards a cupboard. "Get in," he orders calmly. "Get in!" She slips inside but I stay with my back against it, crouched down and pistol cocked.

"The book which the smugglers use, what is it called?" I ask her, frantically.

"Sophie-" John begins, disapproving of me bringing this up now. It's unlikely that she'll get out alive. We need information.

"I-it's a book which everyone owns," she begins, her voice shaking as she looks around at the darkness. She swallows and tries to continue, but is silenced my the sound of gunfire. John and I look up at the sound, then he turns to me.

"I have to go and help," he says,and I nod. "Stay here, and bolt the door after me." He hurries off after the sound and Soo Lin's face fills with dread, her entire body paralysed with fear. It's going to be useless to try and get any more information out of her now.

"It's alright," I say stiffly, reaching to tap her back. "I've got a gun." She looks up at me with a look of shock. Did I just suggest shooting her brother? Bit not good. I grimace, turning away. "Look, I'm sorry -" I'm cut off by anothe gunshot, closer to where we are. I jump up, my fingernails biting into my palms as I tense up. Another gunshot. "I've got to go..." I say, hesitantly, throwing her my pocket knife. "Aim for his heart," I instruct as she catches it and another tear glimmers down her face. It's either him or her. I dart through across the room again to the door, my gun held down but ready for when 'the spider' shows himself. I make my way out into the foyer and up around the stairs to the balcony when I hear more gunshots. My pace quickens as I look behind me, glancing around for any sign of Soo Lin's brother. A shadow flickers for a second in front of me and I dart forward into a display room. In front of me is the back of 'Zhi Zhu's head, and in front of him, behind a glass case displaying numerous ancientskulls, dad ducks, protecting himself from the gunfire.

"Careful!" dad calls, but the gunman fires again. "Some of those skulls are over two hundred thousand years old! Have a bit of respect!" I smirk, knowing dadwould care more about the preservation of ancient skulls then his own life. Zhi Zhu stops firing, seeming to sense me. I hold my breath as he turns around, face unmasked unlike our last little adventure. His face seems familiar, and I recognise him as Lee, the boy from the skate park. He obviously recognised me and wanted me gone. I hold my stance as he stares at me, then he turns, heading out. Why's he retreating? "Thank you!" dad calls sarcastically, but then senses that he's gone. It's very unlikely that he's gone after John, so that must mean he's going...

"Oh my god!" I call softly and dad peaks through the glass of the case.

"Sophie?" dad hisses. The beat of a drum silences him from pursuing. I look around, then charge after the sound. He was aware of four people in that room: dad, John, me and his own sister. Now that he knows that Soo Lin's alone, he'll go after her. My feet hit the ground in rythmn with my heart and the drum beat, though everything seems to be in slow motion. The drumming stops as the door below me, which leads to the restoration room, swings shut. She has a knife and instructions on how to use it, but will she act on them? Already knowing the answer, I speed up, flying along the marble floor and sliding down the bannister to get me back to the foyer. It's too late. A single gunshot and a short cry, and then no more. Highly unlikely that she managed to disarm him, amd even more unlikely that she would be able to shoot him - both the moral and physical ability are lacking. I hold my gun out, as I shoulder barge the door, aiming to injure, not kill. As I swing into the room, I look around cautiously, checking for the gunman before cursing, I've let him slip through my fingers three times now. I step into the room, still frantically looking around as I walk, until the body of a young woman slumped up against a desk catches my eye. I rush forward, lowering my gun as I draw near and reach her hand for a pulse, and looking for a sign of life from her chest.

"Soo Lin?" I question. "Can you hear me?" Behind, John creeps into the room and I stand up.

"Over here!" I call as he looks around and John tenses up at the sudden noise. "She's still alive!" John sprints forward, shrugging off his coat as he reaches me and almost throwing himself onto the floor to listen. I stand there for a moment as he examines her, before drawing up, looking grave.

"Dead," he mutters as he looks at her body with guilt. My eyes glance over her body to her hand and notice another origami flower lying in her upturned palm. I take it, looking it over before placing it back in her hand as the door opens again. Dad slips into the room, turning the light on as I start to walk around, looking for the window that Zhi Zhu escaped from. I head torwards it and just catch a glimpse of a dark figure heading out of bullet range before he dissapears. Adrenaline pumping through me, I swing my legs over the side of the window, and begin to plan my route down.

"Sophie," dad calls softly, and I turn around to face him. "He's gone." I shake my head in denial as he helps me back through the window,my hands shaking too much for them to be much use. I've never liked heights.

"It's my fault," I spit out bitterly. "I should have stayed. I thought she would use the knife."

"Knife?" John questions.

"Inside left pocket," I mutter and he pulls it out. "Why are we like this?" I ask dad quietly, just so only he can hear me. "I should have known she wasn't going to use it before I left." My teeth clamp shut as I look to the floor in anger.

"You used your brain," dad tells me gently. "It's what I would have done. You heard we were in danger, and once you knew we were alright, you headed back. Nobody blames you."

"The police are on their way," John.says a he lowers his phone from his ear, and dad glances back at him before turning back to me.

"You okay?" I nod, more annoyed then upset.

It takes the police precisley five minutes and fourty five seconds to arrive with an Ambulance and all the flashing lights that go with them. As the police rush in, I begin to direct them towards the body, but a female clamps some handcuffs on me.

"What are you doing?" Dad demands, storming over to the woman. She ignores him as she walks in front of me.

"Sophia Holmes, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court, anything you do say may be given in evidence."

"This is ridiculous," dad spits.

"Mr Holmes, the childs guardian?" the woman questions, spinning around.

"Yes, he is," John replies, stepping forward. "Why is this necessery?"

"It's fine, John," I mutter.

"No it's not," dad snaps back.

"I thought I'd made myself quite clear. She is charged with suspicion of murdering Ms Soo Lin Yao." She pulls the gun from my pocket. "Mr Watson mentioned that this young lady was the last to be seen with Ms Yao, and the victim was murdered with a gun. Here's the gun on the lady which was last seen with the victim. Have I explained myself we enough?" I stand still throughout this, not restraining or biting back at any of the things she listed. John looks around the room in fury as Soo Lin is carted away, whereas dad marches up to the officer.

"I don't know what makes you think you can arrest my daughter on the grounds that she 'could have shot the victim'," dad says as he stands less than a meter away from her. "Even more to presume that she was the one to do it when, according to the video footage on the CCTV cameras and an eyewitness account from me, she was in the upstairs gallery at the time of the murder."

"All you have to say will be noted down when we take you in for questioning," the woman repeats. "Besides, who shot the victim if it wasn't her? One of you?"

"Her brother," I say loudly from behind. "Soo Lin Yao was working for an international smuggling agency before she moved to England. He followed her here, needing her help with the absence of something one of their own smugglers took, but when she denied, he threatened to kill her. He's just fullfilled his promise."

"Where was he supposed to go?" The female asks, turning around to look at me. "There's a steady drop of about twelve meters out of the cloesest window, and if you lot were supposedly outside, one would have thought you would have caught him. I must say, it's not the best story I've heard." She turns back to the others in the room. "Alright, we're done here," she calls, and another woman steps forward to take me out. I turn around slightly in time to see the officer which arrested me begin to talk to dad, before the door shuts behind us and I'm led out of the building and into an awaiting police car.


	9. Chapter 9

Back at Baker Street, I bring John's picture up on my laptop and start cross sectioning bits off. Once they're at a suitable size, I send a message to the printer to begin printing. John pins the pictures to the mirror, whilst dad writes the numerical value beside each symbol. Once all the symbols have printed, I stand up by the fireplace, focusing my mind on the images in front of me. John sits down at the desk, his head in his hands as he nods off and dad joins my side, closing the book he used to translate the numbers and tossing it aside. I scan through the numbers, searching for a code type or pattern in the way the numbers are spread. Beside me, dad notices something at the same time as I do.

"Always in pairs, John," dad says, jerking John awake. He blinks and turns around so he's looking at us, squinting against the light.

"Hmm?"

"Numbers come with partners." John ignores him, looking blankly around at the flat instead.

"God, I need to sleep," he groans. I feel wide awake, the adrenaline of steadily getting closer to finding the answer encouraging me onwards.

"Why did he paint it so near the tracks?"

"No idea," John mutters in reply, barely awake.

"Thousands of people pass by there every day."

"It's a wide audience," I say, "and not everybody who goes past will be able to translate the symbols. We thought it was graffiti at first, so anybody else would just presume that as well. Obviously the smugglers use that line for trading, so they'll be the ones the message is aimed at and they'll be able to decode it."

"Of course," dad says in realisation, my comment triggering a new line of thought in his mind. "Of course! He wants information. He's trying to communicate with his people in the underworld. Whatever was stolen, he wants it back." I nod, glad that he gets what I was implying as he runs his finger across the symbols. "Somewhere here in the code."

"I can't see any lettering in there. Perhaps it's a book code," I suggest, and he nods, pulling three photos off of the wall and heading towards the door.

"We can't crack this without Soo Lin Yao."

"Oh, good!" John says sarcastically, sleepily getting up to follow.

"It's highly possible that this is a book code," dad says as we slip onto the street. "They're easy to get hold of but incredibly hard to crack unless you have the right book. Soo Lin, the graffiti was sprayed so she could see. She has a copy of the book and can help us decode the message." We hail a cab and order the taxi to take us back to the museum. We need to find Soo Lin and the last place she was seen will help.

I jump out of the cab as it pulls up to a stop on Trafalgar Square and head straight into the building. We search around for a bit until Andy sees us and walks on over.

"Two men who travelled back from China were murdered, and their killer left them messages in the Hangzhou numerals," dad says, skipping the pleasantries.

"Soo Lin Yao's in danger. Now, that cipher - it was just the same pattern as the others," John continues. "He means to kill her as well."

"Have you even the slightest idea where she is?" I finish.

"Look, I've tried everywhere: um, friends, colleagues," he says, shrugging. "I-I don't know where she's gone. I mean, she could be a thousand miles away." I walk away in exasperation, looking for a change in sequence. The teapots inside a glass case display takes my eye and I stride over.

"Sherlock," I call quietly and dad turns around, his eyes narrowing as he reaches the cabinet.

"What are you looking at?" John questions.

"Tell me more about those teapots," dad demands as he walks over, pointing at the display.

"Th-the pots were her obsession," Andy begins, stuttering nervously. "Um, they need urgent work. If-if they dry out, then the clay can start to crumble. Apparently you have to just keep making tea in them." I nod my head in agreement as I bend down to look more closely at the shelf. I've studied Chinese antiquities and I know the ritual to keep the teapots in shape.

"Yesterday, only one of those pots was shining," dad says, noticing now what I found. "Now there are two."

"But that would mean she'd been here..." John says, his eyebrows furrowing as he turns around, expecting her to pop up from behind a case somewhere.

"And there's nobody else working on them?" I question, turning around to analyse Andy.

"N-no, she was the only one working on this particular project," he tells me. "She was the expert on the Chinese antiques that were coming in." I nod, frowning. If one teapot appears on the shelf shiny the following day, then that means she comes here during the night. I look at my watch to check to time and bite my lip, unsure what to do.

"Show me where she worked," I demand and dad and I stand up straight as Andy starts leading us away. "How am I doing?" I ask dad as we walk down the corridor.

"You're asking the right questions," he tells me and I smile with pride. That's as close to a compliment that I'm going to get now. "And you're thinking logically. You're getting better," he concludes, smiling down at me. As we arrive in the room, Andy flicks the light on, illumination the large space.

"Th-this was her desk," Andy explains, leading us over to one around the middle. "When she wasn't doing the demonstrations, she'd come here." I thank him and he leaves us.

"So what are we doing now?" John questions as the door closes and dad looks around at the desk.

"Now, we wait."

The sunlight begins to filter out of the room and I sit up from my place on the floor, and I nudge John's slumped figure.

"It's time," I say, watching dad slip out the door. He sits up, and moves over into the corner whilst I stand up, checking around to make sure the coast is clear. The plan is for dad to follow Soo Lin Yao here so that it seems that she is alone, but then dad is going to creep back in and then we'll have the element of surprise on our side. We sit in the corner for about a minute, our breathing sounding loud in the empty room.

"Are you sure he knows what he's doing?" John asks me through a whisper.

"Probably not," I tell him, smiling. "He'll just wing it and hope for the best." John nods in the darkness and we fall silent as the shadow of a woman appears at the door, holding a teapot. We hold our breath as she slips inside, setting herself up at her desk. As she pours the tea into the teapot and then picks the lid, carefully stroking around the rim, the outline of a very familiar mass of curls appears at the door. Unaware of this, Soo Lin continues her restoration of the pot, picking up the teapot and pours some of the hot liquid inside into a pair of cups which are waiting on her desk and I see dad slip through the door. As she swishes the tea around to cover the edges of the pot, dad creeps up beside her.

"Fancy a biscuit with that?" Dad says loudly, making Soo Lin jump, gasping in fright as she drops the teapot from her trembling finger. Dad's reactions are quicker then hers as he squats down, catching the teapot easily before it his the floor. "Centuries old," he says, looking up at her. "Don't wanna break that. " He straightens up slowly to make sure he doesn't startle her and I stand up from my hiding place as dad hands back the teapot. He flicks a switch on the desk, turning on the the lights to illuminate their faces as John and I walk over. "Hello," dad say, smiling slightly at her. I join dads side and John arrives beside me. "Sherlock by the way, Sherlock Holmes," he introduces himself. "This is my daughter -"

"Sophia Holmes," I say, extending a hand.

"Yes," dad continues as he sends me a glare, "and this is my colleuge John Watson." I notice he's corrected himself to what he said to Sebastian a few days ago. John shakes hands with Soo Lin.

"Why are you here?" she asks us as she draws her hands in. "How did you find me?"

"We saw the cipher on the statue in the basement," I tell her kindly. "There are several others dotted around London." Soo Lin nods as dad pulls up a stool beside her.

"You saw the cipher?" she questions. "Then you know he is coming for me."

"You've been clever to avoid him so far," dad praises her gently.

"I had to finish ... to finish this work," she explains, gesturing to the teapots. "It's only a matter of time. I know he will find me."

"Who is he?" dad questions. "Have you met him before?"

"When I was a girl, living back in China," she tells us, nodding. "I recognise his ... 'signature'."

"The cipher," dad puts in.

"Onlyhewould do this," she continues. "Zhi Zhu." My eyes narrow as an immediate translation appears inside.

"Zhi Zhu?" John questions.

"The Spider," dad mutters as Soo Lin places her right foot upon he opposite knee, nimbley unlacing her plimsole and slipping it off. On her heel is a black tattoo of a lotus flower inside a circle. My eyes narrow even further as I recognise it.

"You know this mark?" she asks dad.

"Yes," dad comfirms. "It's the mark of a Tong."

"Hmm?"

"Ancient crime syndicate based in China," dad explains and John nods his head in understanding, turning back to listen to Soo Lin.

"Every foot soldier bears the mark; everyone who hauls for them." I nod, seeing the obvious but unpredictable.

"'Hauls'?" John questions and she looks up at him. His eyes widen.

"Y-you mean you were a smuggler?" She lowers her gaze in regret and slips her shoe back on to hide the brand which has owned her life.

"I was fifteen," she begins. "My parents were dead. I had no livelihood; no way of surviving day to day except to work for the bosses."

"Who are they?" dad asks.

"They are called the Black Lotus," she says. "By the time I was sixteen, I was taking thousands of pounds' worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong. But I managed to leave that life behind me. I came to England." She smiles slightly as a tear slips down her cheek. "They gave me a job here. Everything was good; a new life."

"Then he came looking for you," dad says insensitivley.

"Yes," she confirms, swallowing before continuing tearfully. "I had hoped after five years maybe they would have forgotten me, but they never really let you leave," I nod my understanding. I know how smuggling groups such as The Black Lotus opperate. Stay, or die. It's the only way they can insure that their movements aren't told of. "A small community like ours – they are never very far away." She lifts a hans to wipe the tears away. "He came to my flat," she continues, chocking slightly as another slips down her face. "He asked me to help him to track down something that was stolen."

"And you've no idea what it was?" John questions, but she shakes her head.

"I refused to help."

"So you knew him well when you were living back in China?" John confirms, leaning forward. Soo Lin nods sadly.

"Oh yes," she looks up at dad, her eyes glittering with the pain. He's my brother." John straigtens up in surprise and dad nods thoughtfully. I don't know what to think. "Two orphans," she continues, the tears still slipping down freely. "We had no choice. We could work for the Black Lotus, or starve on the streets like beggars," I nod as she pauses,giving her the encouragment to keep talking. "My brother has become their puppet, in the power of the one they call Shan – the Black Lotus general. I turned my brother away," she explains, blinking away more tears as she speaks. "He said I had betrayed him. Next day I came to work and the cipher was waiting." Dad takes the photographs from his jacket pocket and lays them down on the table.

"Can you decipher these?" he asks softly and Soo Lin leans foward, pointing to the number beside Sir William's portrait.

"These are numbers."

"Yes, I know," dad says and Soo Lin points to another picture, one taken of a close up of the portrait.

"Here: the line across the man's eyes – it's the Chinese number one."

"And this one is fifteen," dad says, pointing to the first picture to show that we already know the numeral system. "But what's the code?"

"All the smugglers know it," she tells us. "It's based upon a book ..." I smile slightly, but my joy is short lived as the lights go out around us. Soo Lin looks up in dread and fear as dad stands up, glancing around sharply. "He's here," she says softly, her face full of fear. "Zhi Zhu. He has found me." Dad sprints off across the room as he hears something.

"Sh-Sherlock," John calls urgently. "Sherlock, wait!" Dad charges out of the room and John turns to Soo Lin, holding her as first priority as I fumble for my gun. "Come here," he says, holding his hand out and leading us across the room towards a cupboard. "Get in," he orders calmly. "Get in!" She slips inside but I stay with my back against it, crouched down and pistol cocked.

"The book which the smugglers use, what is it called?" I ask her, frantically.

"Sophie-" John begins, disapproving of me bringing this up now. It's unlikely that she'll get out alive. We need information.

"I-it's a book which everyone owns," she begins, her voice shaking as she looks around at the darkness. She swallows and tries to continue, but is silenced my the sound of gunfire. John and I look up at the sound, then he turns to me.

"I have to go and help," he says,and I nod. "Stay here, and bolt the door after me." He hurries off after the sound and Soo Lin's face fills with dread, her entire body paralysed with fear. It's going to be useless to try and get any more information out of her now.

"It's alright," I say stiffly, reaching to tap her back. "I've got a gun." She looks up at me with a look of shock. Did I just suggest shooting her brother? Bit not good. I grimace, turning away. "Look, I'm sorry -" I'm cut off by anothe gunshot, closer to where we are. I jump up, my fingernails biting into my palms as I tense up. Another gunshot. "I've got to go..." I say, hesitantly, throwing her my pocket knife. "Aim for his heart," I instruct as she catches it and another tear glimmers down her face. It's either him or her. I dart through across the room again to the door, my gun held down but ready for when 'the spider' shows himself. I make my way out into the foyer and up around the stairs to the balcony when I hear more gunshots. My pace quickens as I look behind me, glancing around for any sign of Soo Lin's brother. A shadow flickers for a second in front of me and I dart forward into a display room. In front of me is the back of 'Zhi Zhu's head, and in front of him, behind a glass case displaying numerous ancientskulls, dad ducks, protecting himself from the gunfire.

"Careful!" dad calls, but the gunman fires again. "Some of those skulls are over two hundred thousand years old! Have a bit of respect!" I smirk, knowing dadwould care more about the preservation of ancient skulls then his own life. Zhi Zhu stops firing, seeming to sense me. I hold my breath as he turns around, face unmasked unlike our last little adventure. His face seems familiar, and I recognise him as Lee, the boy from the skate park. He obviously recognised me and wanted me gone. I hold my stance as he stares at me, then he turns, heading out. Why's he retreating? "Thank you!" dad calls sarcastically, but then senses that he's gone. It's very unlikely that he's gone after John, so that must mean he's going...

"Oh my god!" I call softly and dad peaks through the glass of the case.

"Sophie?" dad hisses. The beat of a drum silences him from pursuing. I look around, then charge after the sound. He was aware of four people in that room: dad, John, me and his own sister. Now that he knows that Soo Lin's alone, he'll go after her. My feet hit the ground in rythmn with my heart and the drum beat, though everything seems to be in slow motion. The drumming stops as the door below me, which leads to the restoration room, swings shut. She has a knife and instructions on how to use it, but will she act on them? Already knowing the answer, I speed up, flying along the marble floor and sliding down the bannister to get me back to the foyer. It's too late. A single gunshot and a short cry, and then no more. Highly unlikely that she managed to disarm him, amd even more unlikely that she would be able to shoot him - both the moral and physical ability are lacking. I hold my gun out, as I shoulder barge the door, aiming to injure, not kill. As I swing into the room, I look around cautiously, checking for the gunman before cursing, I've let him slip through my fingers three times now. I step into the room, still frantically looking around as I walk, until the body of a young woman slumped up against a desk catches my eye. I rush forward, lowering my gun as I draw near and reach her hand for a pulse, and looking for a sign of life from her chest.

"Soo Lin?" I question. "Can you hear me?" Behind, John creeps into the room and I stand up.

"Over here!" I call as he looks around and John tenses up at the sudden noise. "She's still alive!" John sprints forward, shrugging off his coat as he reaches me and almost throwing himself onto the floor to listen. I stand there for a moment as he examines her, before drawing up, looking grave.

"Dead," he mutters as he looks at her body with guilt. My eyes glance over her body to her hand and notice another origami flower lying in her upturned palm. I take it, looking it over before placing it back in her hand as the door opens again. Dad slips into the room, turning the light on as I start to walk around, looking for the window that Zhi Zhu escaped from. I head torwards it and just catch a glimpse of a dark figure heading out of bullet range before he dissapears. Adrenaline pumping through me, I swing my legs over the side of the window, and begin to plan my route down.

"Sophie," dad calls softly, and I turn around to face him. "He's gone." I shake my head in denial as he helps me back through the window,my hands shaking too much for them to be much use. I've never liked heights.

"It's my fault," I spit out bitterly. "I should have stayed. I thought she would use the knife."

"Knife?" John questions.

"Inside left pocket," I mutter and he pulls it out. "Why are we like this?" I ask dad quietly, just so only he can hear me. "I should have known she wasn't going to use it before I left." My teeth clamp shut as I look to the floor in anger.

"You used your brain," dad tells me gently. "It's what I would have done. You heard we were in danger, and once you knew we were alright, you headed back. Nobody blames you."

"The police are on their way," John.says a he lowers his phone from his ear, and dad glances back at him before turning back to me.

"You okay?" I nod, more annoyed then upset.

It takes the police precisley five minutes and fourty five seconds to arrive with an Ambulance and all the flashing lights that go with them. As the police rush in, I begin to direct them towards the body, but a female clamps some handcuffs on me.

"What are you doing?" Dad demands, storming over to the woman. She ignores him as she walks in front of me.

"Sophia Holmes, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court, anything you do say may be given in evidence."

"This is ridiculous," dad spits.

"Mr Holmes, the childs guardian?" the woman questions, spinning around.

"Yes, he is," John replies, stepping forward. "Why is this necessery?"

"It's fine, John," I mutter.

"No it's not," dad snaps back.

"I thought I'd made myself quite clear. She is charged with suspicion of murdering Ms Soo Lin Yao." She pulls the gun from my pocket. "Mr Watson mentioned that this young lady was the last to be seen with Ms Yao, and the victim was murdered with a gun. Here's the gun on the lady which was last seen with the victim. Have I explained myself we enough?" I stand still throughout this, not restraining or biting back at any of the things she listed. John looks around the room in fury as Soo Lin is carted away, whereas dad marches up to the officer.

"I don't know what makes you think you can arrest my daughter on the grounds that she 'could have shot the victim'," dad says as he stands less than a meter away from her. "Even more to presume that she was the one to do it when, according to the video footage on the CCTV cameras and an eyewitness account from me, she was in the upstairs gallery at the time of the murder."

"All you have to say will be noted down when we take you in for questioning," the woman repeats. "Besides, who shot the victim if it wasn't her? One of you?"

"Her brother," I say loudly from behind. "Soo Lin Yao was working for an international smuggling agency before she moved to England. He followed her here, needing her help with the absence of something one of their own smugglers took, but when she denied, he threatened to kill her. He's just fullfilled his promise."

"Where was he supposed to go?" The female asks, turning around to look at me. "There's a steady drop of about twelve meters out of the cloesest window, and if you lot were supposedly outside, one would have thought you would have caught him. I must say, it's not the best story I've heard." She turns back to the others in the room. "Alright, we're done here," she calls, and another woman steps forward to take me out. I turn around slightly in time to see the officer which arrested me begin to talk to dad, before the door shuts behind us and I'm led out of the building and into an awaiting police car.


	10. Chapter 10

I stay silent in the police car, not protesting as they lead me into the station, where I'll be staying the night until they find me a place in the Youth Detention Centre. I know I didn't kill Soo Lin Yao, and as soon as they discover that there's no hard evidence to prove it, I'll be out of here. As the hard metal door slams shut, I walk over to the firm bed they've propped up against the wall, and stand on it, looking out of the bars onto the street outside. Blue and red lights illuminate my face as I look out at the activity outside, and then I drop into a sitting position on the bed, setting a stop clock on my watch. As I file away tonight's events in the library of my mind palace, I hear my door unlock and the footsteps of a tired detective inspector enter the cell.

"Fancy seeing you here," he says, and my eyes snap open.

"Lestrade," I smile, standing up. "Are they here yet?"

"Yep, they're here, upstairs," he says, nodding. "So what happened?" I tell him the unedited version of tonight's events, putting in, or taking out, nothing. As I finish, I meet his eyes. "Quite a night, huh?" He smirks and I nod, looking nowhere in particular.

"I take it they've found nothing to prove I killed her?" I ask, looking back at him.

"Not a thing. They're scanning the bullet and your gun now, but that's all they have." I nod, and he looks to me with a smile. "You're free to go, but you need to be in Magistrates Court on Sunday. Everything's pointing towards your innocence though." I look down at my watch. Fifteen minutes since I was put in here, dad's getting slow. Lestrade leads me out and down the corridor to the desk, where they hand me my phone and knife and I fill out my form.

"How you feeling?" John asks me as him and dad arrives beside me. "I'm sorry, by the way, with the confusion." I nod silently, not looking at him.

"Have you spoken to Dimmock yet?" I ask dad, and he shakes his head.

"No, thought we'd better get you first," he smirks, looking me over. "Didn't think you'd be happy if we spoke to him without you." I smile and Lestrade steps forward from beside me.

"Actually, I need to have a word with him a minute," he says, and dad shrugs, letting him go ahead of us.

"Fifteen minutes I was in that cell!" I mutter to dad as we walk.

"Yeah, sorry about that," he smiles. "Had something to say to Janet." Dad looks to me, and seeing my puzzled expression, continues. "The officer which arrested you." I nod my understanding; that was going to be my guess. I wonder what he means by 'I had something to say', because I doubt it was a calm situation. We arrive at the door to Dimmocks office, and we wait outside as Lestrade steps in.

"So what do we know?" I ask as the door shuts. "The smuggling group is the Black Lotus and they've come from China to search for something of value."

"The Hangzhou numerals relate to a book code," dad continues, " most likely directions leading the Tongs towards the rendezvous of the leaders, but we don't know the book it refers to."

"No, but Soo Lin Yao mentioned that it's from a book that everyone would have," John tells dad. "Something that would be easy for the smugglers to get hold of."

"Yes, but that could be anything," I say as the door swings open.

"Alright, in you go," Lestrade says. "Just to warn you, he's not too happy about tonight's fiasco." I nod my understanding and lead the two boys in towards Dimmocks desk, where he stands, absent minded as he sifts through paperwork behind him.

"How many murders is it gonna take before you start believing that this maniac's out there?" John demands as we stop. Dimmock ignores us as he turns around and heads for another desk, blatantly ignoring us. "A young girl was gunned down tonight," John continues, furious. "That's three victims in three days. You're supposed to be finding him, but instead, you're concentrating on arresting the innocent daughter of the man that's helping you!" He steps back and walks away a few paces in exasperation as dad walks across in front of him to get nearer to the DI.

"Brian Lukis and Eddie Van Coon were working for a gang of international smugglers – a gang called the Black Lotus operating here in London right under your nose." He leans closer to emphasise his point, and finally Dimmock turns around.

"Can you prove that?" he questions bitterly, and dad straightens up, biting his lip as he thinks.

"Yes," I say bluntly. "Yes, we can." Dad looks to me, frowning for a moment before catching on.

"Alright then," Dimmock says, placing his hand on his hips. "Show me."

"Meet us at St Bart's in around fifteen minutes," I instruct, turning away. I push open the door and gallop down the stairs.

"Okay, what are we doing?" John questions as he follows behind me.

"Soo Lin said that 'every foot soldier bears the mark'," I recall. "Lukis and Van Coon were both Tongs, which means they both have the tattoos on their heels."

"Mm, so we're going to Bart's why?" I look at him, smiling grimly.

"We need to look at the feet of a few corpses."

I wait outside the canteen as dad goes in to find Molly. She's on her break at the moment, so will have time to roll out the two bodies which we need. Dad, the expert in false flirting, has offered to go in to persuade her to help us, as it's not strictly allowed for the public to view the bodies after they've been looked over. Then again, we don't follow the rules, and we certainly aren't 'the public'. I watch as dad walks up to Molly, making her jump as he suddenly announces his presence, most likely after stating a question.

"Is it likely that she's going to show us the bodies?" John asks, peering through the door as dad makes an obvious comment about her hair. I look across to him, raising my eyebrows.

"Of course," I say as I catch a glimpse of Molly's face - flustered and happy - as she turns back to the self-service display. "She's head over heels for dad. It's quite sad actually; she doesn't understand that he'll return the same love and devotion to her." I smile weakly, and then continue to watch as the pair comes back out empty handed in terms of food. John steps back out of the way, frowning as he comprehends what I just said. I still haven't talked to him about the relationship my mum and dad had, but I don't think I ever will, to be honest.

"Oh, hello," Molly smiles as she steps outside.

"Your hair looks nice, by the way, Molly," I say, reinforcing dads comment from just a moment ago.

"Really?" she questions, self-consciously lifting a hand up to feel it. "Wow, thanks." Dad rolls his eyes as we drop behind her, allowing her to lead us up to the Morgue.

"Why do they like complements?" dad mutters from beside me. "Surely you'd know that you're okay because it's what you want?" It's my turn to roll my eyes. As the current teenager, I know more about emotions and feelings because of the dramas that occur at school, even if I don't get involved with them myself.

"People want to feel nice about themselves, and by knowing that others think good things about you, then that automatically makes you feel better, and more secure."

"Oh," dad says in understanding, and then screws his nose up. "Dull." I laugh in agreement, and I look up to see Dimmock waiting by the door of the Morgue.

"Ah, inspector," I say, walking forward. "Glad you made it!" Dad snorts at my sarcasm from behind and I frown at him.

"Yeah, alright. Now where's this proof you were meant to be showing me?"

"Proof?" Molly asks, looking startled and turning to dad. "But you said -"

"Detective Inspector Dimmock is under the impression that Edward Van Coon and Brian Lukis have nothing in common with the recent death of Soo Lin Yao," dad begins, and Molly's face lights up.

"Oh! Her body has just arrived."

"Yes," dad says, trying to ignore the interruption, and looking firmly into the DI's eyes. "Well he's also under the impression that my daughter was the one who murdered her, so now we're looking for evidence to prove that these deaths are linked." Molly turns to me, blinking in disbelief at this.

"So you need me...?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I get it." She smiles as she walks forward, unlocking the door and leading us in towards the refrigerator, checking through the labels on the front until she finds the right one. We assist her as she attempts to move each of the covered bodies onto two separate tables, laying them out with some respect. Molly reaches for some latex gloves as we walk back into the room after leaving to wash our hands, and we head over towards the bag containing Brian Lukis. She unzips the bag gently and pushes back the sides to reveal the face, which we don't need to see.

"We're just interested in the feet," dad announces and Molly looks up, frowning in disgust and confusion.

"The feet?"

"Yes. D'you mind if we have a look at them?" He asks sarcastically, smiling as he leads Dimmock to the other end of the body. Molly follows us and repeats her previous actions, pulling back the sides to reveal the feet instead. On the bottom of his right heel is a tattoo identical to the one Soo Lin showed us before. We straighten up after a moment with smug expressions, and move to stand beside the second table. "Now Van Coon." Molly follows us, leading Dimmock over as she unzips the body bag, revealing an identical tattoo on his right heel to the one on Lukis'. Dimmock sighs in silent surrender. "Oh!" dad breathes scornfully, straightening up.

"So ..." Dimmock begins awkwardly.

"So either these two men just happened to visit the same Chinese tattoo parlour or I'm telling the truth." He sighs in resignation.

"What do you want?"

"I want every book from Lukis' apartment and Van Coon's." Dad instructs, seeming to remember what I told him about the books being in common use.

"Their books?" Dimmock questions and I roll my eyes.

"Yes," I confirm. "We need them at the flat as soon as you can." I smirk, remembering the proportion of books in each flat. "In boxes detailing who they came from. We can't afford any mix-ups."

"Look, it's not as simple-"

"Brilliant, well, we'll be off now," I smile as I stride towards the door, ignoring Dimmocks' protests.

Outside, we catch a cab to Baker Street and we enter the building without hesitation.

"Okay, so what've we got so far?" John questions as we climb the stairs. "Thanks the Soo Lin we know that they are all linked through a criminal organisation which arranges the smuggling of antiquities and drugs across the border…" he fades off as dad shakes his head, taking off his coat as we enter the living room and John and I follow his actions.

"Not just a criminal organisation; it's a cult. Her brother was corrupted by one of its leaders."

"Soo Lin said the name," John remembers.

"Yes, Shan; General Shan," dad remembers.

"We're still no closer to finding them."

"Wrong," dad disagrees. "We've got almost all we need to know. She gave us most of the missing pieces." He looks pointedly at John, waiting for him to agree. "Why did he need to visit his sister?" he questions after a moment of impatient silence. "Why did he need her expertise?" Because she was an expert in the type of things they were smuggling, I think to myself. She was the first to know if any valuable antiquities came into the country.

"She worked at the museum," John begins hesitantly.

"Exactly," dad encourages.

"An expert in antiquities," John says in realisation, finally catching on. "Mmm, of course. I see."

"Valuable antiquities, John," dad corrects. "Ancient Chinese relics purchased on the black market. China's home to a thousand treasures hidden after Mao's revolution."

"And the Black Lotus is selling them," John confirms and dad tilts his head as if he has an idea. If the Black Lotus is selling these items, then it must be somewhere that buyers can find it. We need to look online. I head towards the bedroom, taking my laptop from the bottom drawer of my dressing table and start loading the Crispians' website. I place it down on the table and stand aside as dad and John head over, skimming down the page as dad takes his seat in front the laptop. Dad brings up a search for recent auctions of Chinese and other Asian artworks, and I glance down at the prices and dates

"Check for the dates ..." dad mutters to himself, then stops scrolling, pointing instead to a pair of Chinese Ming vases. "Here, John."

"Mmm."

"Arrived from China four days ago," dad tells him, reading off of the information, and then runs his finger down through the details until we find the Sale information. An anonymous source. "Anonymous. Vendor doesn't give his name. Two undiscovered treasures from the East." I remember the distinct shape of a heavy item compressed in Van Coon's suitcase, and I confirm our theories.

"One in Lukis' suitcase and one in Van Coon's," John realises, nodding as dad clicks open another tap, opening up the Quest search site and begins to type.

"... antiquities sold at auction," he says, narrating a he types. The results list appears and there are a lot more to show. "Look, here's another one," he says, pointing.

"Mmm."

"Arrived from China a month ago: Chinese ceramic, sold 400,000." John frowns as he takes up Lukis' diary to check the dates before spotting another entry as I pick up Van Coon's diary print out.

"Ah, look: a month before that – a Chinese painting, half a million."

"And that one there," I say, pointing to a tiara. "Emerald Diamond Tiara. Said to have belonged to Emperor Napoleon III's wife, dated 27th December, sold for £7,994,484. Source is anonymous." John's eyes bulge at the price, but dad continues.

"All of them from an anonymous source. They're stealing them back in China and one by one they're feeding them into Britain."

"Huh," John mutters, consulting the diary again, then checking the print off in my hands. "And every single auction coincides with Lukis or Van Coon travelling to China."

"So what if one of them got greedy when they were in China?" Dad suggests. "What if one of them stole something?"

"That's why Zhi Zhu's come," John says, looking at dad. A knock on the door behind startles me slightly, but I turn around to see Mrs Hudson by the entrance, confirming my predictions.

"Ooh-ooh!" she calls, gaining the attention of the boys as they turn to face her. "Sorry," she apologises; clearly realising that we're busy. "Are we collecting for charity, Sherlock?"

"What?" Dad questions in confusion, and I frown.

"A young man's outside with crates of books." I smile to myself. The game is finally on!

"Okay, I'll let them in." Dad frowns at me slightly as he looks at me but I shrug. Something useful is happening at last.

I follow up behind a group of about five police officers who are bringing the boxes, and come in the living room as the dad starts explaining the code, so I dump the box and move over to where they

"So, the numbers are references," he says.

"To books," John continues.

"To specific pages and specific words on those pages," dad finishes.

"Right, so ..." John begins, frowning as he remembers, "fifteen and one: that means ..."

"Turn to page fifteen and it's the first word you read," had explains.

"Okay. So what's the message?" I roll my eyes in frustration of his utter oblivious nature.

"Depends on the book," dad retorts snarky. "That's the cunning of the book code. Has to be one that they both owned." I grimace at these words and look around at the crates.

"Okay, right. Well, this shouldn't take too long, should it?!" John says, reading my mind as he steps over towards one of the crates as flips open the lid, sighing as he takes a handful of books back to the desk to write them down. I bite my lip, unsure where to start, so I begin where it is logical - the beginning. I breathe slowly, focusing my mind on my mental map of a library inside my palace, then visualise me putting each of these books in alphabetical order into the shelves. This way, the books will be easy to come back to later if I find one which matches. As I reach for my third book, Dimmock walks in, holding up an evidence bag to show dad.

"We found these, at the museum," he tells him, showing the bag to John as he ignored from an explanation from either me or dad, but I could see it contained the photographs of the ciphers which we'd been showing to Soo Lin. "Is this your writing?"

"Uh, we hoped Soo Lin could decipher it for us," John says, taking the bag as I continue my search. "Ta." Dimmock nods and turns back to dad, looking helpless as he continues to unload his crate.

"Anything else I can do?" he asks. "To assist you, I mean?"

"Some silence right now would be marvellous," dad says without looking up. I hit the jackpot and immediately searching through my library, just to make sure. I smirk as I find it and open it up, finding page fifteen and looking at the first word.

"'Stakes'," I say out loud, and John looks up, surprised at my outburst. "From 'Great Expectations'." He nods, noting it down on paper as I make a mental observation on a chalk board which I imagine to be beside the bookcase.

Dad seems to have found another matching pair, but looks unimpressed as he narrates it, then slams the two copies onto the table in front of John, for him to write down. I stack my used books to the side, again in alphabetical order so that either dad or John can find a certain book if they need it.

Books pass by us slowly as time seems to stop. Nobody get another match for another half an hour, when I pick up a second copy of Deception Point by Dan Brown. Excited, I flick through it, although I know inside that it's an unlikely choice; it's too obscure. The word itself doesn't seem to make sense either. I walk over to the desk, dumping the two books on top of an ever growing pile on the desk.

"'through'," I mutter quietly to John. "'Deception Point'." He nods, noting it down before shifting the pair onto the floor.

Time continues to drag, and I find another two, useless words from irrelevant, almost coincidental book pairs. 'Almost' from 'The Old Curiosity Shop' and 'Never' from 'Crime and Punishment'. I shift my fifth crate to one side as I've been doing with the others as the sunlight creeps through the window, and I look around, taking in the view of the messy living room. We've compared piles several times, but to no avail. These books are just the ones a well-educated English man would own, not the sort of things an international cult of smugglers would happen to have in their possession. I stop for a moment, looking down in disdain at the new crateful of books which I've just opened, and run a hand through my hair as Johns work alarm goes off. I watch as he runs a hand through his hair, sighing sleepily as he realises that he's got to get up. His first day of work, and from the way his eyes are sagging with fatigue, he won't be making a very good first impression.

We continue to look through the books in silence, occasionally cross referencing the odd title. A little while before John is due back, I sigh pointedly, closing the sixth crate of books.

"This isn't working," I say, walking over to my next crate. "There's too many holes where we could be slipping through our system."

"What do you suggest?" he asks, shifting some more books to one side. I think for a moment, processing the information we have on this code.

"Lets try thinking this through logically," I suggest, walking over to our bookshelf. "First of all, we need to think about the audience of this book." I scan our shelves, biting my lip.

"A book that everybody would own," dad recites, also turning to the bookcase. He pulls down the Concise Oxford English Dictionary, the Holy Bible and Tess of the D'Urbervilles and puts them down on the top of the nearest crate. Trying out my own theory, I pick up a few other books, bestsellers of this year, plus some modern classics such as the Lord of the Rings and the Hobbit, both of which have pointless plotlines and unbelievable characters. There's no real reason to it. Either way, I flip to page 15 of my pocket sized Hobbit, and find another irrelivant word. 'I', as it turns out to be, and even doubling the page number to thirty to make up for the page sizes only brings it up to 'true'. That's unlikely to be used in the warning of two smugglers. Dad is getting the same result from his bible as he closes it, echoing the sound of the door downstairs as it announces John's arriveral, amd dad props his elbows up on the crate, running his fingers thoughtfully through his hair as John enters the room. I look him over, noticing at once the change of clothes which he's now wearing compared to earlier. The contition of his shoes tells me that he's got himself a date. With the doctor, by the looks of things. Well I'm sure they'll be perfect together.

"I need to get some air," dad announces. "We're going out tonight."

"Actually, I've, er, got a date," I mirror John's smug smile as he confirms my deduction, whereas dad on the over hand looks puzzled.

"What?"

"It's where two people who like each other go out and have fun," John explains slowly, eyeing dad suspiciously as I laugh.

"That's whatIwas suggesting," he retorts indignantly, and I hit him softly.

"No it wasn't ... at least Ihopenot."

"Ignore him," I advise.

"Where are you taking her?" dad questions sulkily.

"Er, cinema."

"Oh, dull, boring, predictable," he pulls a piece of paper from his trouser pocket as he walks over to John, and I recognise it as a poster add. "Why don't you try this?" John takes the strip, and looks it over, skeptically. I walk over, peering over his shoulder to see the advertisment for the 'Yellow Dragon Circus', and is obviously torn off of a larger poster. "In London for one night only," dad continues to explain, and I smile,knowing where he's getting at. John doesn't seem to have made the connection and just laughs, handing the paper back to dad.

"Thanks, but I don't come to you for dating advice."

"You don't really have much choice," I begin. "It's the perfect opportunity."

"What are you going on about?" John questions and I roll my eyes.

"Look, just go on ahead. I've already booked us tickets, so you have to go," dad protests.

"Take Sophie, I'm going cinema." I step forward.

"Fine, but it's what she'll be expecting. Just like all the others. No, don't bother doing something different when you've got the cinema to go to!" John looks at me for a moment, then sighs reluctantly.

"Fine, I'll go."

"Brilliant! Have a brilliant time and don't get too distracted with... whoever it is." I say, ushering John out of the house. As the door shuts again, I turn around, and see dad is already on the phone to order some more tickets. We're going to the circus!


	11. Chapter 11

The circus had always been a place of mystery to me, for I had never stepped foot inside one. I'd expected a large big top with that cliché music, but then again, this is the centre of London. I wouldn't expect anything else.

We follow John and his girlfriend (Sarah, from work, as it turns out) up a slope towards a building, (probably a hall of sorts) keeping to the shadows to avoid detection.

"It's years since anyone took me to the circus," Sarah says to John and he chuckles nervously in reply.

"Right, yes! Well, it's ... a friend recommended it to me," I raise an eyebrow, remembering our previous conversation on this topic. "He phoned up."

"Ah. What are they, a touring company or something?"

"I don't know much about it," he admits, pausing to look up at the numerous red Chinese lanterns that are strung up outside the hall, showing the first sign that this is anything but the cliché circus' from the movies.

"I think they're probably from China!" Sarah jokes, looking up.

"Yes, I think ... I think so, yes," John says lamely. "There's a coincidence!" I hear him mutter as they head inside to the Box Office. Dad and I slip in behind them, hiding ourselves against the wall for 'dramatic effect' as dad likes to call it. I peer round the corner casually as the customer in front of John and Sarah receives her ticket, then turns and heads up the stairs to the side.

"The place looks practically empty," I notice, looking around.

"They've taken the precaution of small amounts of advertising. Enough for the show to be a plausible excuse or an alibi, but not busy enough to warrant any media attention which would mean their stay in this country is prolonged." Dad pauses to listen into John's conversation with the manager.

"And what's the name?" the manager questions as John slips his wallet from his jacket.

"Er, Holmes," John replies, and I spot the look of confusion pass over Sarah's face, but she stays quiet.

"Actually, I have four in that name," the manager announces after a moment of checking. John frowns.

"No, I don't think so," he argues calmly. "We only booked two."

"And then I phoned back and got a couple for myself and for Sophie as well." John looks up in disbelief as dad turns into his line of sight, offering his hand out to Sarah. "I'm Sherlock and this is my daughter Sophia." I give her a small, fake smile as she glances back at John for a moment, obviously nervous about our sudden arrival and shake our hands as John turns away in what I take to be exasperation.

"Er, hi," Sarah manages to get out.

"Hello," dad replies, also sending her his fake smile before instantly turning and walking away again to wait on the stairs for John.

"Erm," Sarah begins, looking at me nervously, as if I'm about to pounce upon her with a gun. No doubt John has told her about our problem. "I just need to pop to the loos; I'll only be a minute." John curses as she disappears behind the corner and heads on a war path to the stairs.

"You couldn't let me have just one night off?" he hisses, keeping his voice low.

"Yellow Dragon Circus, in London for one day," dad argues. "It fits. The Tong sent an assassin to England ..."

"... dressed as a tightrope walker," John interrupts. "Come on, Sherlock, behave!"

"We're looking for a killer who can climb, who can shin up a rope," dad persists, voicing our theory. "Where else would you find that level of dexterity? Exit visas are scarce in China. They need a pretty good reason to get out of that country. Now, all I need to do is have a quick look round the place ..."

"Fine. You can do that with Sophie; I'm gonna take Sarah for a pint."

"I need your help," dad says sternly. Most normal people would feel offended by this, but there's something in the makeup of the Holmes' DNA that numbs us from criticism such as this.

"I do have a couple of other things on my mind this evening!"

"Like what?" John blinks, staring at dad in disbelief at his ignorance.

"You are kidding."

"What's so important?" dad persists.

"Sherlock, I'm right in the middle of a date. D'you want me to chase some killer while I'm trying to ..." he breaks off, pondering on whether or not to continue.

"What?" dad persists.

"... While I'm trying to get off with Sarah!" John finalises, losing his temper and inevitably speaking much loader in his anger. Almost as if to complete the imminent, Sarah comes around the corner just as John finishes, and it's clear that she's heard at least the last bit. "Heyyy," John draws the word out as he turns to his date, smiling awkwardly. Rolling my eyes, I follow dad up the stairs, leaving a suddenly eager Sarah behind with a bashful John. She's been fussing with her hair whilst she was in the toilets, and has obviously touched up on her makeup as well, which shows that she's very keen about her relationship with John, even though it won't last long. John is used to a certain lifestyle of danger, which is why he signed up to the army, and the reason why he is continuing to live with us. A woman such as Sarah won't last long with John because her previous relationships have all been straightforward enough, as I can tell by the texture of her hand as we shook.

We're shown into a large hall as we reach the top of the stairs which includes a full sized stage, although it's obvious that it's not being used for this event because the heavy curtains are closed. There are no seats laid out for us, so we gather around a circle of candles that is about nine metres in diameter, and it seems that barely anyone has decided to turn up, as everyone can see with a clear view. I take in the size of the hall with my back to the centre as John and Sarah arrange themselves beside each other, and dad joins my side behind them, looking at the ceiling for any wires of something similar that could show us if they were going to do any stunts which involved climbing, and if they did, whether there was any tricks to it.

"You said circus," John mutters, talking over his shoulder and turning his head away from his date so that she can't hear his conversation with dad. "This is not a circus. Look at the size of this crowd. Sherlock, this is ..." he fades off, grimacing with distaste as he looks for a word to describe the setup, "... art."

"This is not their day job," dad replies bluntly over his shoulder as I pace, as naturally as I can, around to take in any exit routes such as a fire escape or something similar, but if there is, then they've hidden in the shadows in the back.

"No, sorry, I forgot," John whispers maliciously. "They're not a circus; they're a gang of international smugglers." Dad ignores him as the performance begins. I stop pacing and join dads side again, watching as a male in traditional Chinese costume beats out a tapping rhythm on a small hand drum. John looks over his shoulder at us with a look of incredulity at this unusual and traditional greeting and dad and I return his look with our eyebrows raised.

A woman dressed ornately in a classic red silk gown and heavily painted face walks towards the centre of the circle and stops, looking imperiously out at us before raising her hand in the air for the drummer to stop.

"Traditionally named 'the Opera Singer,'" dad mutters to me, and I nod in acknowledgment. The Opera Singer begins to walk across the circle to a large, covered object, and she pulls back to reveal an antique crossbow positioned on a stand. Picking up a long, thick, wooden arrow decorated with white feathers from one end of the crossbow, and the sharpened point glistens in the candlelight, she shows it to us before fitting it into the crossbow. Beside me, dad looks on at the performance with bored eyes and I wonder when he's had the chance to see this before, as I can't see his parents taking him and Mycroft to any sort of circus, although I've never met them.

Straightening up, the Opera singer pulls a single white feather from her headdress and shows us that there is nothing considerably special about this small item. On the back of the crossbow is a small, metal cup, and she drops the feathers so that it falls into it. Immediately, the arrow is released and whizzes across the room, and I whirl my head around as I follow its progress over the circle until it hits a large, painted board, whilst John and Sarah are still gasping at the sound of the arrow's release. In front of me, Sarah turns to John, laughing and dramatically clutching at her heart. I roll my eyes at this behaviour whilst around me; people begin to applaud as another character enters the ring, dressed in chainmail and an ornate head mask. He holds his arms out to the sides as two darkly clothed men come over and begin to attach heavy chains around him so that he's almost unable to move. I recognise the act immediately as an escapology act, one which I haven't seen in a while, and one I specifically didn't want to watch. Not after the last time. The two men strap the character so that his hands are folded in front of him, and they begin to back him up against the board.

"Classic Chinese escapology act," dad announces to John and Sarah as the warrior is strapped to the board. The couple in front turn to him.

"Hmm?" John mutters questioningly.

"The crossbow's on a delicate string," dad explains as the men continue to tie the chains. "The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires." We watch silently as the Opera Singer slips another arrow into the crossbow whilst the men attach more padlocks and chains to the warrior. One of the men pulls a chain tight, wrenching the warrior's head back against the board. The warrior cries out in false pain as the men maintain to loop the chains through steel rings attached to the board and begin to secure the warrior, who cries out again. A moment later, they seem to be satisfied with their prisoners bonds, so they step away. The music builds up the intensity in the room, and some cymbals clap together unexpectedly, causing people around us to jump comically.

"Oh, Gawd! I'm sorry!" Sarah laughs, awkwardly, taking his arm with her other hand.

I take my eyes away from the 'happy couple' and put them back on the performance in front. The Opera Singer picks up a small knife and displays it to us, like she's done with the rest of the instruments.

"She splits the sandbag; the sand pours out; gradually the weight lowers into the bowl," dad explains softly so that just our small group can hear. The Opera Singer does what dad had predicted and reaches up to a small sandbag from where it hangs quite low from a long cable. The cable seems to be looped around some sort of a pulley, and as she slits the bottom of the sack, I spot the metal weight which is attached to the other end. Sand begins to trickle out, unbalancing the two weights so that the sandbag lowers into the bowl. The warrior cries out with effort and dad rolls his eyes at the acting and taps my arm pointedly, gesturing to the stage. I nod silently and we slip back into the shadows, heading towards the side door the stage just as the sandbag reaches level with the weight.

The stage seems to be being used as the dressing room for the Chinese performers, as the area is equipped with everything from a dressing table with mirrors to free standing clothes rails. I follow behind dad, twirling around to take in a full 360 of the space. In front of me, dad stops and I look over his shoulder to see what's made him tense up. It almost looks like another warrior is standing in the shadows, although I can see when I look down that the chainmail and mask are being hanging on a stand. Through the curtains, I hear the announcement of the next act as it breaks through the audience's applause.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the Opera Singer begins in the newly found silence, "from the distant moonlight shores of the Yangtze River, we present for your pleasure the deadly Chinese bird-spider." I allow my eyebrows to rise slightly as I abandon my lookover of the room to peer through the curtains. As the Opera Singer walks off stage, a masked acrobat falls controllably from the ceiling, rolling as a thick red band around his waist unravels.

"Over here," I call softly to dad, not taking my eyes off of the acrobat as he removes the band form his waist and takes the two strips of material apart, wrapping them around his arms. Dad joins my side and looks out with interest as the acrobat lifts into the air, flying around in a circle a few feet off of the ground.

"Well, well," dad murmurs softly.

"Our murderer," I state, just as quietly. The stage door that we entered from opens and I sprint over to a clothes rail to take cover as dad joins, spreading the clothes hiding us so we can watch the Opera Singer. She seems distressed and checks her mobile from one of the dressing tables. I shift a hanger out of my line of sight, but it falls to the floor with a clatter. I bite my lip, cursing my clumsiness silently, and duck down as the Opera Singer looks up sharply. We crouch down lower as she comes towards us, but I let out a steady stream of air as she continues on out. As I shift into a more comfortable position, my foot collides with a bag, and several tins hit together. Dad looks down and flips the bag open, revealing the cans. He picks two up and I see the Michigan label as he tosses one over towards me. I catch it easily.

"Found you," dad sings softly. "Take this to Raz, ask him whether it's the same as the one we saw, then take it to Bart's. I don't think we'll need to be here much longer." I nod and fall back into the shadows, making my way back towards the stage door to the side, stuffing the newly acclaimed spray paint into my black bag.

As I leave the hall, keeping to the shadows to avoid detection from anyone who happens to be watching, I allow my mind to wander. Perhaps dad didn't want me there because of my clumsy previous actions. I nearly got us caught.

I follow the path down onto the main road and stand to the side, waiting for the next cab to come along. Mycroft once told me to avoid taking to first cab that comes your way, as it could be a trap. I've never really thought about it much, and put it down to paranoia, but it seems that our whole family suffers. Maybe we're trying to be too cautious. Even so, I let the first couple of cabs pass, then signal the third, ensuring I follow through the paranoia with a check of the cabbie.

"St Bart's, please," I say, and sit back in my seat.

"Visiting someone?" he questions and I frown in annoyance; I don't like cabbies who pry.

"Er, yeah, something like that," I pull out my phone, signalling the end of our conversation. He gets the hint and leaves me alone as I begin to hack into the local Wi-Fi networks to allow me online. Once I break through the password walls, I bring my webpage up and tap the keys on my phone idly. John seems to have taken it upon himself to write up our cases, which draws the attention from our page and onto his without explanation, as his writing skills leave much to be desired. I bring up the statistics for the views the website has and I see the figures. Only forty-seven people have brought up this page within the last week, and none of them have viewed the cases.

"We're here, love," says the cabbie, drawing up outside the hospital and I realise I must have been online for around ten minutes.

"Right, thanks," I reply, stepping out and handing him a lump of cash. I wait outside for a moment, waiting for the taxi to disappear before I cross the road, over towards a group of garages for the ambulances. A figure steps out from the shadows and comes up behind me. "Raz," I say, spinning around. "Sherlock texted you?" He nods and looks at my bag.

"Where is it then?" I hand him the can and he holds it up to the light. "Same brand, definitely." He turns around, taking the lid off and spraying a long, yellow line across the wall. "Yep, identical to the pictures you guys showed me." He tosses me the can and I catch it easily.

"Thanks. See you around," I say, heading back towards the hospital.

"Wait," he calls, and I spin around. "Good luck." I frown, spinning around as he sends me a cocky grin. The constant eye contact and the way he's always there when I need to meet up is enough to tell me his feelings for me, and it's not like I haven't experienced something like this before. I don't want a relationship, especially with someone like Raz.

I walk through the winding passages of the hospital to the labs upstairs, trying to remove the feeling Raz has for me from my mind. I'm on a case, and I can't let trivial matters get in my way. Molly is inside when I reach my preferred lab and smiles warmly.

"Oh hi, wasn't expecting you here," Molly says, shifting some of her things to the side. "How's that case going, that graffiti one?" I show her the can and move over to one of the microscopes.

"Er, yeah, we're getting closer," I admit, spraying some of the paint into a petri dish and sliding it under the lens. "There's this code we need to crack, a message, but we can't find the book which goes with it." Molly freezes, turning to look at me with amusement.

"You can't crack the code?" she laughs, and I frown, lifting my head from the lens.

"Yes, I need the book. It could be anything," I sigh, annoyed. Molly tries to make conversation, but after a few minutes of silence on my part, leaves me to my work. I identify a high amount of Hydrofluorocarbons, and pull out a couple of the images taken by the train tracks. It all seems to match. An idea crosses my mind and I flick the switch off on the wall. Molly looks up, concerned, probably, for my sanity, but I flick it up again to the UV setting. I lie the pictures beneath the microscope and inspect the pictures once more. As I thought, the words are being painted over with a type of invisible ink, most likely lemon juice, going by the strength in colour. Even now, I can see it's going to be pointless trying to get the message from the printouts. The only way I can be sure to translate it right is to go to the place where the graffiti is, but the only pattern I'm certain has the ink is the train rails one, and that has been painted over. I need to find some more.

Picking up my stuff and slipping in a small, portable, UV torch, I leave the room, swinging my coat back on and being thoughtful enough to switch the lights back on. Where else is there likely to be any more graffiti than before? A place where the Tong are meant to be meeting? I smile to myself and hail a cab, ordering it to take me back to the hall. The Tong which were brought over would have all been smuggled out as part of the circus, so for a while, they would be able to spread out across London. On the night of their act, they would need a way of knowing where they were to be performing, so a message would most likely be posted around the back of the hall, somewhere dark enough so that people would just walk past it and not even realise it was there. It would be hidden in the shadows. I hop out of the cab, stuffing a handful of coins into the drivers hand as I sprint around the back of the building. The music inside has stopped, allowing me to assume that the show has finished. All I have to hope now is that they didn't remove this message as well. I wouldn't have thought so, as they clearly want us to find out this message. If they didn't, someone could have easily destroyed all copies of the photos, even the ones on our phones, which is why I'm surprised when I find nothing around the back of the hall, apart from a collage of posters, wet with the recent rain and slightly ripped apart from neglect. I freeze for a moment, allowing myself to find another, more logical, thought process, and then look back up at the posters. The performances advertised are all dated as this week, which suggests the posters would have been put up around the beginning of the week, however the condition of the papers are a lot worse than they should be. I look closer at the ripped parts, and pull back the bits which are sticking on the wall from the rain. To my success, I find another message written across the wall, as fresh as these posters, yet preserved from any weather damage. I slide the torch from my pocket and shine the light upon the message. Whether it was their intention or not, they've left it in almost complete darkness, a perfect situation for UV usage.

"Gotcha," I mutter softly, taking a picture of the wall without the flash, the UV light illuminating the photo. Just in case, I open up a new page on my notebook and write down the phrase revealed. "Wzyozy L K." It makes no sense to me now, but with some work, I'm sure I'll be able to find out what this means.

No more than five minute after I leave the darkened alleyway behind the hall, I recieve a text message.

Meet us at Scotland Yard

SH

I tuck my phone back into my bag and pull my coat tighter as the winter wind bites at my exposed skin. However those girls from school survive when they go out for the night in skimpy dresses and fifty inch heels, I'll never understand. Looking back through the message in my mind, I try to look for clues at what sort of mood dad's in. The length of the message would suggest he's rushed or annoyed, and the fact he wants me to meet him at the Yard is making me think it's closer to annoyance. The police haven't been able to pin down the Tong. I hail a cab as I reach the main road and step in, feeding the driver the address as I buckle myself in. He raises a brow at my destination, but drives off anyway. We pass several police cars heading the opposite way, towards the hall, most likely going to look it over to find evidence of there ever being any smuggling group, but I know the attempt will be futile; they're too strong and will be cunning enough to be several steps ahead of us. They could be halfway back to China by now, although I doubt it.

I step out of the cab; handing over some money, then walk quickly inside. The receptionist recognises me immediately and waves me on up, and I work my way through the maze of passages up to Dimmocks office. As I turn one of the corners, I spot dad, John and that Sally woman scuttling quickly after Dimmock as he leads them towards his office, looking, from his body language, rather angry. It seems the squad sent out have found nothing they can use to pin down the smuggling group, as I suspected. I catch up with the group, giving Susan a small smile as I push through to the men at the front. I look them both over and notice some small areas on both of their jackets which seem fairly rumpled, as if they've been in some sort of physical fight, but the way they're holding themselves and talking quietly, it would be suggested that it wasn't between them. A thick coat of dusty sand granules layer the back of dads jacket, and coupled with his shallow breathing, I would say he was pushed backwards and fell, from a reasonable height, most likely the stage back at the hall, down onto a sandy ground. Taking this into account, I can estimate that this fight happened around about the same time as I left, but went on for several minutes, drawing the attention of the audience from the performance, seeing as John got involved, but obviously later in the fight, towards the end.

Dimmock storms into his office and we follow him towards his desk.

"I sent a couple of cars. The old hall is totally deserted," Dimmock bites.

"They were barely going to hang around to be caught, were they?" I retort, with equal poison.

"Look, I saw the mark at the circus – that tattoo that we saw on the two bodies: the mark of the Tong," dad explains, intervening on the argument as Dimmock reaches his desk, turning around to face us.

"Lukis and Van Coon were part of a-a smuggling operation," John begins, reciting what we all already know. "Now, one of them stole something when they were in China; something valuable."

"These circus performers were gang members sent here to get it back," dad continues.

"Get what back?" Dimmock quizzes, and dad looks away, biting his lip angrily.

"We don't know," John admits, hesitantly.

"You don't know," Dimmock repeats in obvious annoyance and dad is still avoiding eye contact.

"Mr. Holmes ..." Dimmock begins. "I've done everything you two have asked. Lestrade, he seems to think your advice is worth something." Beside me, dad raises his head and I notice a small, proud smile creeping onto his face. "I gave the order for a raid. Please tell me I'll have something to show for it – other than a massive bill for overtime."

"We've learnt a lot," I say, pulling out the new pictures I've taken. "I went looking for more evidence after it was confirmed that the paint in this tin-" I show him the can from my bag, "is the same as the ones on the walls around London." Dad and John are looking at me curiously now, both unsure on why I'm retracing my footsteps. "On a whim, I tested one of the photographs under a UV light source at Bart's and I found traces if a message, written over the Hangzhou numerals in lemon juice." I take out a picture I took of this discovery and hand it around. "I then headed back to the hall. Now your police cars, Dimmock, failed to pick up on the graffiti on the back of the hall, stating, theoretically, a rendezvous for the Tong to meet up at if they receive any information on this 'valuable item'. To test out my previous theory, I brought along a UV torch and found these letters traced over the numerals in another mixture of lemon juice. I found these results." I show them a final picture, the one I took of the letters.

"Wzyozy L K?" Dimmock reads, before passing it on. "What's that meant to mean?"

"Probably a code, most likely a code telling the minor Tong members which book to use to find the message," I state, piecing together a theory which has been hanging in loose threads in my mind.

"What code is it though?" John questions, looking past dad at me.

"Could be lots of different things," I admit.

"Narrow it down," dad whispers in my ear.

"We can rule out book code and pig-pen ciphers for a start, along with the hangman's dance and Morse because we wouldn't be using letters."

"Do you have any it's likely to be?" Dimmock questions. "Could it be, I dunno, an anagram?"

"No, the longest word you can make from this is five letters long, and you'd need to use all of the letters for it to work. I think I could narrow it down to around three types." Dad nods thoughtfully, catching on. Code has never been his forte, but mine, which is why he's taking a backseat now.

"Well, you better get to it now, then. Good luck." He walks across the floor and opens the door up for us, then watches as we leave.

The circus had always been a place of mystery to me, for I had never stepped foot inside one. I'd expected a large big top with that cliché music, but then again, this is the centre of London. I wouldn't expect anything else.

We follow John and his girlfriend (Sarah, from work, as it turns out) up a slope towards a building, (probably a hall of sorts) keeping to the shadows to avoid detection.

"It's years since anyone took me to the circus," Sarah says to John and he chuckles nervously in reply.

"Right, yes! Well, it's ... a friend recommended it to me," I raise an eyebrow, remembering our previous conversation on this topic. "He phoned up."

"Ah. What are they, a touring company or something?"

"I don't know much about it," he admits, pausing to look up at the numerous red Chinese lanterns that are strung up outside the hall, showing the first sign that this is anything but the cliché circus' from the movies.

"I think they're probably from China!" Sarah jokes, looking up.

"Yes, I think ... I think so, yes," John says lamely. "There's a coincidence!" I hear him mutter as they head inside to the Box Office. Dad and I slip in behind them, hiding ourselves against the wall for 'dramatic effect' as dad likes to call it. I peer round the corner casually as the customer in front of John and Sarah receives her ticket, then turns and heads up the stairs to the side.

"The place looks practically empty," I notice, looking around.

"They've taken the precaution of small amounts of advertising. Enough for the show to be a plausible excuse or an alibi, but not busy enough to warrant any media attention which would mean their stay in this country is prolonged." Dad pauses to listen into John's conversation with the manager.

"And what's the name?" the manager questions as John slips his wallet from his jacket.

"Er, Holmes," John replies, and I spot the look of confusion pass over Sarah's face, but she stays quiet.

"Actually, I have four in that name," the manager announces after a moment of checking. John frowns.

"No, I don't think so," he argues calmly. "We only booked two."

"And then I phoned back and got a couple for myself and for Sophie as well." John looks up in disbelief as dad turns into his line of sight, offering his hand out to Sarah. "I'm Sherlock and this is my daughter Sophia." I give her a small, fake smile as she glances back at John for a moment, obviously nervous about our sudden arrival and shake our hands as John turns away in what I take to be exasperation.

"Er, hi," Sarah manages to get out.

"Hello," dad replies, also sending her his fake smile before instantly turning and walking away again to wait on the stairs for John.

"Erm," Sarah begins, looking at me nervously, as if I'm about to pounce upon her with a gun. No doubt John has told her about our problem. "I just need to pop to the loos; I'll only be a minute." John curses as she disappears behind the corner and heads on a war path to the stairs.

"You couldn't let me have just one night off?" he hisses, keeping his voice low.

"Yellow Dragon Circus, in London for one day," dad argues. "It fits. The Tong sent an assassin to England ..."

"... dressed as a tightrope walker," John interrupts. "Come on, Sherlock, behave!"

"We're looking for a killer who can climb, who can shin up a rope," dad persists, voicing our theory. "Where else would you find that level of dexterity? Exit visas are scarce in China. They need a pretty good reason to get out of that country. Now, all I need to do is have a quick look round the place ..."

"Fine. You can do that with Sophie; I'm gonna take Sarah for a pint."

"I need your help," dad says sternly. Most normal people would feel offended by this, but there's something in the makeup of the Holmes' DNA that numbs us from criticism such as this.

"I do have a couple of other things on my mind this evening!"

"Like what?" John blinks, staring at dad in disbelief at his ignorance.

"You are kidding."

"What's so important?" dad persists.

"Sherlock, I'm right in the middle of a date. D'you want me to chase some killer while I'm trying to ..." he breaks off, pondering on whether or not to continue.

"What?" dad persists.

"... While I'm trying to get off with Sarah!" John finalises, losing his temper and inevitably speaking much loader in his anger. Almost as if to complete the imminent, Sarah comes around the corner just as John finishes, and it's clear that she's heard at least the last bit. "Heyyy," John draws the word out as he turns to his date, smiling awkwardly. Rolling my eyes, I follow dad up the stairs, leaving a suddenly eager Sarah behind with a bashful John. She's been fussing with her hair whilst she was in the toilets, and has obviously touched up on her makeup as well, which shows that she's very keen about her relationship with John, even though it won't last long. John is used to a certain lifestyle of danger, which is why he signed up to the army, and the reason why he is continuing to live with us. A woman such as Sarah won't last long with John because her previous relationships have all been straightforward enough, as I can tell by the texture of her hand as we shook.

We're shown into a large hall as we reach the top of the stairs which includes a full sized stage, although it's obvious that it's not being used for this event because the heavy curtains are closed. There are no seats laid out for us, so we gather around a circle of candles that is about nine metres in diameter, and it seems that barely anyone has decided to turn up, as everyone can see with a clear view. I take in the size of the hall with my back to the centre as John and Sarah arrange themselves beside each other, and dad joins my side behind them, looking at the ceiling for any wires of something similar that could show us if they were going to do any stunts which involved climbing, and if they did, whether there was any tricks to it.

"You said circus," John mutters, talking over his shoulder and turning his head away from his date so that she can't hear his conversation with dad. "This is not a circus. Look at the size of this crowd. Sherlock, this is ..." he fades off, grimacing with distaste as he looks for a word to describe the setup, "... art."

"This is not their day job," dad replies bluntly over his shoulder as I pace, as naturally as I can, around to take in any exit routes such as a fire escape or something similar, but if there is, then they've hidden in the shadows in the back.

"No, sorry, I forgot," John whispers maliciously. "They're not a circus; they're a gang of international smugglers." Dad ignores him as the performance begins. I stop pacing and join dads side again, watching as a male in traditional Chinese costume beats out a tapping rhythm on a small hand drum. John looks over his shoulder at us with a look of incredulity at this unusual and traditional greeting and dad and I return his look with our eyebrows raised.

A woman dressed ornately in a classic red silk gown and heavily painted face walks towards the centre of the circle and stops, looking imperiously out at us before raising her hand in the air for the drummer to stop.

"Traditionally named 'the Opera Singer,'" dad mutters to me, and I nod in acknowledgment. The Opera Singer begins to walk across the circle to a large, covered object, and she pulls back to reveal an antique crossbow positioned on a stand. Picking up a long, thick, wooden arrow decorated with white feathers from one end of the crossbow, and the sharpened point glistens in the candlelight, she shows it to us before fitting it into the crossbow. Beside me, dad looks on at the performance with bored eyes and I wonder when he's had the chance to see this before, as I can't see his parents taking him and Mycroft to any sort of circus, although I've never met them.

Straightening up, the Opera singer pulls a single white feather from her headdress and shows us that there is nothing considerably special about this small item. On the back of the crossbow is a small, metal cup, and she drops the feathers so that it falls into it. Immediately, the arrow is released and whizzes across the room, and I whirl my head around as I follow its progress over the circle until it hits a large, painted board, whilst John and Sarah are still gasping at the sound of the arrow's release. In front of me, Sarah turns to John, laughing and dramatically clutching at her heart. I roll my eyes at this behaviour whilst around me; people begin to applaud as another character enters the ring, dressed in chainmail and an ornate head mask. He holds his arms out to the sides as two darkly clothed men come over and begin to attach heavy chains around him so that he's almost unable to move. I recognise the act immediately as an escapology act, one which I haven't seen in a while, and one I specifically didn't want to watch. Not after the last time. The two men strap the character so that his hands are folded in front of him, and they begin to back him up against the board.

"Classic Chinese escapology act," dad announces to John and Sarah as the warrior is strapped to the board. The couple in front turn to him.

"Hmm?" John mutters questioningly.

"The crossbow's on a delicate string," dad explains as the men continue to tie the chains. "The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires." We watch silently as the Opera Singer slips another arrow into the crossbow whilst the men attach more padlocks and chains to the warrior. One of the men pulls a chain tight, wrenching the warrior's head back against the board. The warrior cries out in false pain as the men maintain to loop the chains through steel rings attached to the board and begin to secure the warrior, who cries out again. A moment later, they seem to be satisfied with their prisoners bonds, so they step away. The music builds up the intensity in the room, and some cymbals clap together unexpectedly, causing people around us to jump comically.

"Oh, Gawd! I'm sorry!" Sarah laughs, awkwardly, taking his arm with her other hand.

I take my eyes away from the 'happy couple' and put them back on the performance in front. The Opera Singer picks up a small knife and displays it to us, like she's done with the rest of the instruments.

"She splits the sandbag; the sand pours out; gradually the weight lowers into the bowl," dad explains softly so that just our small group can hear. The Opera Singer does what dad had predicted and reaches up to a small sandbag from where it hangs quite low from a long cable. The cable seems to be looped around some sort of a pulley, and as she slits the bottom of the sack, I spot the metal weight which is attached to the other end. Sand begins to trickle out, unbalancing the two weights so that the sandbag lowers into the bowl. The warrior cries out with effort and dad rolls his eyes at the acting and taps my arm pointedly, gesturing to the stage. I nod silently and we slip back into the shadows, heading towards the side door the stage just as the sandbag reaches level with the weight.

The stage seems to be being used as the dressing room for the Chinese performers, as the area is equipped with everything from a dressing table with mirrors to free standing clothes rails. I follow behind dad, twirling around to take in a full 360 of the space. In front of me, dad stops and I look over his shoulder to see what's made him tense up. It almost looks like another warrior is standing in the shadows, although I can see when I look down that the chainmail and mask are being hanging on a stand. Through the curtains, I hear the announcement of the next act as it breaks through the audience's applause.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the Opera Singer begins in the newly found silence, "from the distant moonlight shores of the Yangtze River, we present for your pleasure the deadly Chinese bird-spider." I allow my eyebrows to rise slightly as I abandon my lookover of the room to peer through the curtains. As the Opera Singer walks off stage, a masked acrobat falls controllably from the ceiling, rolling as a thick red band around his waist unravels.

"Over here," I call softly to dad, not taking my eyes off of the acrobat as he removes the band form his waist and takes the two strips of material apart, wrapping them around his arms. Dad joins my side and looks out with interest as the acrobat lifts into the air, flying around in a circle a few feet off of the ground.

"Well, well," dad murmurs softly.

"Our murderer," I state, just as quietly. The stage door that we entered from opens and I sprint over to a clothes rail to take cover as dad joins, spreading the clothes hiding us so we can watch the Opera Singer. She seems distressed and checks her mobile from one of the dressing tables. I shift a hanger out of my line of sight, but it falls to the floor with a clatter. I bite my lip, cursing my clumsiness silently, and duck down as the Opera Singer looks up sharply. We crouch down lower as she comes towards us, but I let out a steady stream of air as she continues on out. As I shift into a more comfortable position, my foot collides with a bag, and several tins hit together. Dad looks down and flips the bag open, revealing the cans. He picks two up and I see the Michigan label as he tosses one over towards me. I catch it easily.

"Found you," dad sings softly. "Take this to Raz, ask him whether it's the same as the one we saw, then take it to Bart's. I don't think we'll need to be here much longer." I nod and fall back into the shadows, making my way back towards the stage door to the side, stuffing the newly acclaimed spray paint into my black bag.

As I leave the hall, keeping to the shadows to avoid detection from anyone who happens to be watching, I allow my mind to wander. Perhaps dad didn't want me there because of my clumsy previous actions. I nearly got us caught.

I follow the path down onto the main road and stand to the side, waiting for the next cab to come along. Mycroft once told me to avoid taking to first cab that comes your way, as it could be a trap. I've never really thought about it much, and put it down to paranoia, but it seems that our whole family suffers. Maybe we're trying to be too cautious. Even so, I let the first couple of cabs pass, then signal the third, ensuring I follow through the paranoia with a check of the cabbie.

"St Bart's, please," I say, and sit back in my seat.

"Visiting someone?" he questions and I frown in annoyance; I don't like cabbies who pry.

"Er, yeah, something like that," I pull out my phone, signalling the end of our conversation. He gets the hint and I leave him alone, beginning to hack into the local Wi-Fi networks to allow me online. Once I break through the password walls, I bring my webpage up and tap the keys on my phone idly. John seems to have taken it upon himself to write up our cases, which draws the attention from our page and onto his without explanation, as his writing skills leave much to be desired. I bring up the statistics for the views the website has and I see the figures. Only forty-seven people have brought up this page within the last week, and none of them have viewed the cases.

"We're here, love," says the cabbie, drawing up outside the hospital and I realise I must have been online for around ten minutes.

"Right, thanks," I reply, stepping out and handing him a lump of cash. I wait outside for a moment, waiting for the taxi to disappear before I cross the road, over towards a group of garages for the ambulances. A figure steps out from the shadows and comes up behind me. "Raz," I say, spinning around. "Sherlock texted you?" He nods and looks at my bag.

"Where is it then?" I hand him the can and he holds it up to the light. "Same brand, definitely." He turns around, taking the lid off and spraying a long, yellow line across the wall. "Yep, identical to the pictures you guys showed me." He tosses me the can and I catch it easily.

"Thanks. See you around," I say, heading back towards the hospital.

"Wait," he calls, and I spin around. "Good luck." I frown, spinning around as he sends me a cocky grin. The constant eye contact and the way he's always there when I need to meet up is enough to tell me his feelings for me, and it's not like I haven't experienced something like this before. I don't want a relationship, especially with someone like Raz.

I walk through the winding passages of the hospital to the labs upstairs, trying to remove the feeling Raz has for me from my mind. I'm on a case, and I can't let trivial matters get in my way. Molly is inside when I reach my preferred lab and smiles warmly.

"Oh hi, wasn't expecting you here," Molly says, shifting some of her things to the side. "How's that case going, that graffiti one?" I show her the can and move over to one of the microscopes.

"Er, yeah, we're getting closer," I admit, spraying some of the paint into a petri dish and sliding it under the lens. "There's this code we need to crack, a message, but we can't find the book which goes with it." Molly freezes, turning to look at me with amusement.

"You can't crack the code?" she laughs, and I frown, lifting my head from the lens.

"Yes, I need the book. It could be anything," I sigh, annoyed. Molly tries to make conversation, but after a few minutes of silence on my part, leaves me to my work. I identify a high amount of Hydrofluorocarbons, and pull out a couple of the images taken by the train tracks. It all seems to match. An idea crosses my mind and I flick the switch off on the wall. Molly looks up, concerned, probably, for my sanity, but I flick it up again to the UV setting. I lie the pictures beneath the microscope and inspect the pictures once more. As I thought, the words are being painted over with a type of invisible ink, most likely lemon juice, going by the strength in colour. Even now, I can see it's going to be pointless trying to get the message from the printouts. The only way I can be sure to translate it right is to go to the place where the graffiti is, but the only pattern I'm certain has the ink is the train rails one, and that has been painted over. I need to find some more.

Picking up my stuff and slipping in a small, portable, UV torch, I leave the room, swinging my coat back on and being thoughtful enough to switch the lights back on. Where else is there likely to be any more graffiti than before? A place where the Tong are meant to be meeting? I smile to myself and hail a cab, ordering it to take me back to the hall. The Tong which were brought over would have all been smuggled out as part of the circus, so for a while, they would be able to spread out across London. On the night of their act, they would need a way of knowing where they were to be performing, so a message would most likely be posted around the back of the hall, somewhere dark enough so that people would just walk past it and not even realise it was there. It would be hidden in the shadows. I hop out of the cab, stuffing a handful of coins into the drivers hand as I sprint around the back of the building. The music inside has stopped, allowing me to assume that the show has finished. All I have to hope now is that they didn't remove this message as well. I wouldn't have thought so, as they clearly want us to find out this message. If they didn't, someone could have easily destroyed all copies of the photos, even the ones on our phones, which is why I'm surprised when I find nothing around the back of the hall, apart from a collage of posters, wet with the recent rain and slightly ripped apart from neglect. I freeze for a moment, allowing myself to find another, more logical, thought process, and then look back up at the posters. The performances advertised are all dated as this week, which suggests the posters would have been put up around the beginning of the week, however the condition of the papers are a lot worse than they should be. I look closer at the ripped parts, and pull back the bits which are sticking on the wall from the rain. To my success, I find another message written across the wall, as fresh as these posters, yet preserved from any weather damage. I slide the torch from my pocket and shine the light upon the message. Whether it was their intention or not, they've left it in almost complete darkness, a perfect situation for UV usage.

"Gotcha," I mutter softly, taking a picture of the wall without the flash, the UV light illuminating the photo. Just in case, I open up a new page on my notebook and write down the phrase revealed. "Wzyozy L K." It makes no sense to me now, but with some work, I'm sure I'll be able to find out what this means.

No more than five minute after I leave the darkened alleyway behind the hall, I recieve a text message.

Meet us at Scotland Yard

SH

I tuck my phone back into my bag and pull my coat tighter as the winter wind bites at my exposed skin. However those girls from school survive when they go out for the night in skimpy dresses and fifty inch heels, I'll never understand. Looking back through the message in my mind, I try to look for clues at what sort of mood dad's in. The length of the message would suggest he's rushed or annoyed, and the fact he wants me to meet him at the Yard is making me think it's closer to annoyance. The police haven't been able to pin down the Tong. I hail a cab as I reach the main road and step in, feeding the driver the address as I buckle myself in. He raises a brow at my destination, but drives off anyway. We pass several police cars heading the opposite way, towards the hall, most likely going to look it over to find evidence of there ever being any smuggling group, but I know the attempt will be futile; they're too strong and will be cunning enough to be several steps ahead of us. They could be halfway back to China by now, although I doubt it.

I step out of the cab; handing over some money, then walk quickly inside. The receptionist recognises me immediately and waves me on up, and I work my way through the maze of passages up to Dimmocks office. As I turn one of the corners, I spot dad, John and that Sally woman scuttling quickly after Dimmock as he leads them towards his office, looking, from his body language, rather angry. It seems the squad sent out have found nothing they can use to pin down the smuggling group, as I suspected. I catch up with the group, giving Susan a small smile as I push through to the men at the front. I look them both over and notice some small areas on both of their jackets which seem fairly rumpled, as if they've been in some sort of physical fight, but the way they're holding themselves and talking quietly, it would be suggested that it wasn't between them. A thick coat of dusty sand granules layer the back of dads jacket, and coupled with his shallow breathing, I would say he was pushed backwards and fell, from a reasonable height, most likely the stage back at the hall, down onto a sandy ground. Taking this into account, I can estimate that this fight happened around about the same time as I left, but went on for several minutes, drawing the attention of the audience from the performance, seeing as John got involved, but obviously later in the fight, towards the end.

Dimmock storms into his office and we follow him towards his desk.

"I sent a couple of cars. The old hall is totally deserted," Dimmock bites.

"They were barely going to hang around to be caught, were they?" I retort, with equal poison.

"Look, I saw the mark at the circus – that tattoo that we saw on the two bodies: the mark of the Tong," dad explains, intervening on the argument as Dimmock reaches his desk, turning around to face us.

"Lukis and Van Coon were part of a-a smuggling operation," John begins, reciting what we all already know. "Now, one of them stole something when they were in China; something valuable."

"These circus performers were gang members sent here to get it back," dad continues.

"Get what back?" Dimmock quizzes, and dad looks away, biting his lip angrily.

"We don't know," John admits, hesitantly.

"You don't know," Dimmock repeats in obvious annoyance and dad is still avoiding eye contact.

"Mr. Holmes ..." Dimmock begins. "I've done everything you two have asked. Lestrade, he seems to think your advice is worth something." Beside me, dad raises his head and I notice a small, proud smile creeping onto his face. "I gave the order for a raid. Please tell me I'll have something to show for it – other than a massive bill for overtime."

"We've learnt a lot," I say, pulling out the new pictures I've taken. I went looking for more evidence after it was confirmed that the paint in this tin-" I show him the can from my bag, "is the same as the ones on the walls around London." Dad and John are looking at me curiously now, both unsure on why I'm retracing my footsteps. "On a whim, I tested one of the photographs under a UV light source at Bart's and I found traces if a message, written over the Hangzhou numerals in lemon juice." I take out a picture I took of this discovery and hand it around. "I then headed back to the hall. Now your police cars, Dimmock, failed to pick up on the graffiti on the back of the hall, stating, theoretically, a rendezvous for the Tong to meet up at if they receive any information on this 'valuable item'. To test out my previous theory, I brought along a UV torch and found these letters traced over the numerals in another mixture of lemon juice. I found these results." I show them a final picture, the one I took of the letters.

"Wzyozy L K?" Dimmock reads, before passing it on. "What's that meant to mean?"

"Probably a code, most likely a code telling the minor Tong members which book to use to find the message," I state, piecing together a theory which has been hanging in loose threads in my mind.

"What code is it though?" John questions, looking past dad at me.

"Could be lots of different things," I admit.

"Narrow it down," dad whispers in my ear.

"We can rule out book code and pig-pen ciphers for a start, along with the hangman's dance and Morse because we wouldn't be using letters."

"Do you have any it's likely to be?" Dimmock questions. "Could it be, I dunno, an anagram?"

"No, the longest word you can make from this is five letters long, and you'd need to use all of the letters for it to work. I think I could narrow it down to around three types." Dad nods thoughtfully, catching on. Code has never been his forte, but mine, which is why he's taking a backseat now.

"Well, you better get to it now, then. Good luck." He walks across the floor and opens the door up for us, then watches as we leave.

"Sophie, get to work on cracking the cipher," dad demands as we climb the stairs to 221B.

"There's no point, though, is there?" John says as we walk into the living room, and I sit down at the table, immediately trying to crack the code. "They'll be back in China by tomorrow." As I said before, at the office, there are three possibilities to what the code could be. Firstly, you have Transposition, a fairly simple, but time consuming cipher, in which the word is rearranged in a pattern agreed with all parties. This takes a while to guess at. Secondly, we have the ROT1. Much simpler to guess at because it simply takes one to replace a letter in the alphabet with the next letter, for example, 'S' would become 'T' and so on. The final one is the Caesar Shift Cipher. Quite similar to ROT1, but there are a lot more combinations. Instead of replacing it by the next letter, you could replace it with any number below twenty-six. I believe Caesar is the one we want.

I begin to write down possible solutions, writing the original at the top for reference. Wzyozy L K. Below it, I begin with the ROT1, slipping it forward one to become Xazpaz M L. I flick through a mental dictionary and find no anagram for this phrase, so I look it up on my phone. No results. I move onto the next one.

"No, they won't leave without what they came for," dad argues. "We need to find their hide-out; the rendezvous. Sophie, keep working." I put my head back down and follow his instructions. "Somewhere in this message it 'must' tell us." The room falls silent, and I move onto the C cipher.

"Well, I think perhaps I should leave you to it," Sandra says suddenly, out of the blue. I'd forgotten she was there.

"No, no, you don't have to go ... " John begins looking around at dad. " ... does she? You can stay."

"Yes, it would be better to study if you left now," dad agrees to Sadie, in simultaneous argument, looking around pointedly whilst John throws a dark look at him before turning back to her.

"He's kidding," John says, wearily. "Please stay if you'd like." Sapphire looks nervously towards dad, who's already turned back to the photos. I move onto the next cipher possibility.

"Is it just me, or is anyone else starving?" she questions and I roll my eyes in silent exasperation.

"Ooh, God," dad sighs, matching my enthusiasm at simple human needs.

Oh the simplistic needs of the average human being. I, personally, haven't eaten for at least the last few days, before that fight over the Jaria Diamond a couple of days before. It seems so long ago.

John looks around at Sarah in surprise, having obviously forgotten about eating anything at all. Meals are so infrequent in the Holmes household that I think he's just learnt to ignore the hunger. Either way, he walks towards the fridge; obviously trying to impress whatever her name is with his below mediocre cooking.

I attempt at the G cipher now, replacing the letters to get me to: Cfeufe R Q, which means nothing to me.

Dad joins me at the dining table, but leaves me to work on the code; he knows I work better alone, and takes out several pieces of paper, rummaging through them for reference or just to help me. John's girlfriend walks idly over to the mirror, looking over the pictures pinned to it with little interest as we work.

"So this is what you do, you and John," she begins. "You solve puzzles for a living."

"Consulting detective," dad replies tetchily, not looking around. "John helps me and Sophie."

"Oh," Sally says, sounding a little surprised that someone of my age could do such a thing, and smiles at me. I ignore her and tap in the next eight letters of the 'I' code into Google, but nothing of use comes up for Orqgrq D C. Only seventeen more solutions to go through!

I sense someone walk up behind me and peer over my shoulder, looking nosily at my work.

"Is that supposed to say 'Orange'?" Sadie asks stupidly and I have to refrain from hurting her.

"No," I smile, a fake, sweet smile. "It's supposed to say 'Orqgrq D C'."

"Hmm," Sandra replies, sceptically, and walks over to annoy dad instead, looking over his shoulder at the paper. "What are these squiggles?" I peer over to see dads' expression on this and watch as he looks up, his face set in the same way as I was feeling.

"They're numbers. An ancient Chinese dialect," he explains, trying to remain calm when the level of idiocy is clouding everything else.

"Oh, right!" she exclaims, sarcastically. "Yeah, well, of course I should have known that!"

I hear the door the kitchen squeak open behind me as the familiar footsteps of Mrs Hudson enter, up to help John out with his rather rubbish date, no doubt.

I keep working on the code, trying rotation after rotation. I slot in the next few letters, getting, I can feel it, ever closer to the answer. I'm on the K cipher now, and I know I'm close. Beside me, Sarah picks up the evidence bag containing the picture that Dimmock gave to us on the night I got arrested, and I tense up in utter annoyance, distracting myself from the code for a moment.

"So these numbers – it's a cipher," Sarah states, looking closely at the picture and completely oblivious to the looks both me and dad are giving her.

"Exactly," dad replies tightly as I put my head back down.

"And each pair of numbers is a word." I frown, looking up again in surprise as I turn to face Sarah. Dad mirrors me.

"How did you know that?" he questions, looking first to me, and then to her, meeting her eyes for what must be the first time.

"Well, two words have already been translated, here." She puts the picture down on the desk and I stand up, moving over to a place where I can see it as she points. Dad takes it from her and I notice now the small inscriptions. Soo Lin had started translating it, after we'd all gone off.

"John," dad calls, calmly.

"Mmm?" he replies, looking around from the kitchen table as dad stands up.

"John, look at this." Dad slips the picture carefully from the evidence bag as John comes over. "Soo Lin at the museum – she started to translate the code for us. We didn't see it! 'NINE' 'MILL'." I look over the picture again, this time making out the wording.

"Does that mean 'millions'?" John questions, squinting at the photo.

"Nine million quid," dad says, thoughtfully. "For what?"

"That tiara, on the auctions the other day. Sold for just less than eight million pounds. Maybe it's another in the collection."

"That's quite likely," dad says, going over to where he's left his coat and scarf. "But we still need to know the end of this sentence."

"Where are you going?" John demands as dad shrugs his coat on.

"To the museum; to the restoration room." He grimaces in exasperation at himself. "Oh, we must have been staring right at it!" To think we were hiding out in the very same room as the key to this mystery is insane. How did we not notice it?

"At-at what?" John questions, still at a lost.

"The book, John. The book – the key to cracking the cipher!" He flips the photo up at John pointedly. "Soo Lin used it to do this! Whilst we were running around the gallery, she started to translate the code. It must be on her desk. Sophie, keep working on the code, text me when you find something." He disappears out of the door.

I sit back down in my seat, making the most of the current surprised silence to get back into the frame of mind. The K cipher translates as 'Mpoepo B A', which means nothing to me, and I cross check it online. Nothing.

In the kitchen, I half listen into John and Sarah's conversation as my brain nags at me that there's something I'm missing. I hear them decide on ordering a Chinese as it clicks. I write down my theory hastily, sliding the letters along once to reach the L rotation. I write the alphabet down the side of my notebook, wanting to get this right. As I reach Z, I start back up at the top, writing it out again, but with the letter L beside the A. I write down the answer as I go. "L-O-N-D-O-N," I say out loud and smile as it makes sense. I think I can predict the next two letters, but I look for them anyway. "A-Z!" I gasp in excitement as I look up at the couple in the kitchen. "John! I've found it!" All the pieces fly together now as if I've uncovered a massive magnet which is drawing together all of my loose threads to create an answer.

I remember seeing the London A-Z taking the top spot on one of Lukis' many piles of messy books, clearly left there from when he hastily decoded his doom. I remember seeing the same book on Van Coon's coffee table, near the wall, third book down. Back in the museum, on Soo Lin's desk, was a copy of the London A-Z. We'd looked at it, ironically whilst we were passing the time, trying to work out a pattern between the murders. "'A book which everyone would own!'" I quote excitedly, heading over to one of the crate and beginning to take out handfuls of books. "It fits John!" John and Sarah help me to unload the crates, before I come across it. Firstly, the threat.

"I'll text Sherlock, keep looking!" John calls, heading back into the kitchen for his phone. Page fifteen, entry one... I flick to the correct page and take out one of the pictures of the wall in Shad's office. The warning for both men. The first entry reads:

"Deadmans Lane NW9!" John raises his head from his phone.

"What?"

"The message in Shad and the library, it was a threat. They knew it was which was why Van Coon was ready with a gun and why both houses were locked." John nods thoughtfully.

"Can you translate the rest?" I return the nod and take another print out of the brick wall from the pile, writing down the two words which were already translated. I flick through to page thirty-seven and slide my finger down across the page until I find entry nine. Fore St EC2, this obviously gets shortened down to 'for', so that's what I write down.

Book codes are easy but time consuming once you have the book you need, so I'm surprised that this is the cipher type they chose - it's easy!

Sixty, thirty-five, that's the next code, so I follow its instructions, bringing me to Jade Cl. E16. Jade. Jade what, though? Was I right that it's part of the tiara collection?

I translate the rest of the words easily, now in the flow of finding the right pages. I translate the last word and write it down on the paper, looking at the message its entirety. "Nine mill for jade pin. Dragon den black tramway." Black tramway? Where's that?

"Soph, I've ordered you some curry, would you like us to put you some back for later?" John asks, sticking his head around the kitchen door as I reach for one of our maps.

"Er, yeah, whatever you say," I reply, not listening as I search for the tramway. The doorbell rings downstairs signalling the arrival if our dinner and John heads downstairs. Something about this bugs me. It couldn't have been more than five minutes since John ordered our meal, yet here is the delivery man. "Oh, god!" I mutter quietly, heading into my bedroom, passing John girlfriend in the process. "Prepare yourself," I warn her as I reach the door and slip out my gun from the pocket of my coat. I hear a scream from the living room and follow the sound. A man, around the same height as the attacker who drugged me the first time, but still covered up in a mass of black cloth that it's hard to tell, approaches me, dropping a limp Sarah to the ground. She's still breathing, for the moment. Breathing steadily, but my heart beating fast, I position myself in an attacking stance. Never display your most valued weapon to your enemy, as they can use it against you, as Mycroft said once. I think he may have been talking about words or connections, but in this circumstance, I'm happy to go with guns.

If the assassin is keeping Sarah alive, then it's likely that he's using us as hostage to get at dad, and I won't let that happen without a fight. The man laughs and copies me, and I feel the rush of adrenaline course through my veins. This man has been trained in the martial arts since he was about four years old, and has been practising every year after. Me ... well, I started when I was eight, so I think my chances are limited, if we think about it realistically.

I bow respectfully to him and he begrudgingly returns it, before coming up quickening and beginning the fight. He charges at me, his distance away from meaning he reaches me in seconds, his head bent low to push into my stomach. I bring my leg up to kick him away, but he grasps my foot and twists it around, pushing me backwards. Losing my balance, I fall into the arms of another assassin who had crept up behind me and struggle relentlessly against my bonds as they tie me up and bundle me out of the apartment of 221B.


	12. Chapter 12

We arrive straight into the dragons den, so to speak. I know for sure that both Sarah and I are conscious throughout the journey, but if John is also, then he's lying still, up against the side of the van. They've placed a cloth gag in my mouth, bound my hands tight together, and put a small potato sack over my head so I can't see, but apart from that, I'm grand. Beside me, I sense Sarah shaking with fear as the van jolts to a stop and the doors are opened. A couple of men step in and take the bags off our heads and lead us out, whilst a third lifts John out, bridal style.

We're lead down some steps into a dark tunnel, lit only by some dim, flickering lights which bounce clumsily off of the grimy walls. Sleek hide out. I don't resist as they lead us down, as I need to gather as much information about this hideout to return, prepared, with backup from dad and perhaps the police. Either way, if I struggle, they're likely to kill John or Sarah, so I keep quiet.

We walk past some stacked up containers against the tunnel walls and it seems as if we've arrived at the main part of their headquarters, as a fire burns in a dustbin in front, flickering lights against the tunnel walls. Three chairs are laid out for our use, and Sarah and I are lead over to two of them, whilst John is carefully lowered into the third and bonded tightly. I notice now a small cut across his left temple, supposedly knocked out with a gun or something similar along with a large object in the centre of the tunnel which is covered with a large cloth. Looking around, it doesn't seem as if I'll be able to use my gun, without the risk of it hitting one if us.

I notice tear marks down Sarah's face as we're tied to the chairs in a similar fashion as John is, and I give her a comforting smile as my kidnapper takes the gag from my mouth. I was right about what I said earlier; she certainly wouldn't have been expecting all this to happen.

A Chinese woman approaches from behind one of the containers in front of me and I narrow my eyes as I recognise her as the 'tourist' which I've seen several times around London. I'd thought it was paranoia, but in this case, she really was watching us. Despite the darkness of the tunnel, she's still wearing sunglasses, but underneath, I think I'd also recognise her as the Opera Singer from tonight's performance. The ringmaster of this entire operation. General Shan.

"Good evening, ladies," Shan says, spreading her arms in mock welcome a she steps into the firelight. "I am sorry if my men had hurt you, but you are needed for this part of the plan."

"What plan?" I ask, dumbing myself down and willing that Sarah plays along too. "Please, I don't know what you mean!" Shan steps forward, closer towards me.

"I have seen you many times around Mr. Holmes and his companion, yet I don't have a name for you." She doesn't know who I am? Then I can stop us from being involved in this plot, therefore withdrawing the threat that dad will have to choose between us or giving up the information that he knows.

"I'm Ellie Watson, and this is my mum, Sally Watson," I reply, breathlessly.

"I was in town for a few weeks, so I just wanted to see my daughter," Sarah pleads, accepting the role. "Please, let her go!" I glance over to her and we exchange looks of mock terror. Well, mine is, anyway. I know what I'm doing.

"I see no reason not to believe you," Shan says slowly after watching us for a moment. "But still, Mr Holmes seems to value his companion, so family will also count into the bargain." I curse silently under my breath; this is not working out how I'd planned. "You will be realised, unharmed, if Sherlock Holmes gives me then treasure, if not, then I'm sure we can make a deal over your bodies." I shiver slightly as the fire blows away, but I keep my eyes on her as she turns away from us. The men who brought us here step forward from the shadows once more and fasten the gags back into our mouths as we struggle. In front, I watch as John regains consciousness and raises his hand to the cut on his head. As he grimaces in pain, General Shan starts to talk.

"'A book is like a magic garden carried in your pocket,'" she says, quoting an old Chinese proverb which I've heard countless times. John looks around the tunnel and sees us, wincing with the pain in his head. I give him a weak smile. Shan walks closer to him. "Chinese proverb, Mr. Holmes." John and I both look to her with startled panic. This is not what I had planned.

"I ... I'm not Sherlock Holmes," John protests, and Shan smiles at him, humourlessly.

"Forgive me if I do not take your word for it." She reaches towards him and rummages through his inside pocket.

"Ow," John mutters in obvious pain. "Ow." She slides out his wallet and takes something from it - something I can't see from this angle. Sarah looks at me, terrified.

"Debit card, name of S. Holmes." The card dad lent him to get the shopping with. How did they know he had that in his possession? I never saw them check his pockets.

"Yes; that's not actually mine," John argues. "He lent that to me." Shan ignores him, continuing to flick through his wallet. I know what she's going to find now.

"A cheque for five thousand pounds made out in the name of Mr. Sherlock Holmes." As I thought.

"Yeah, he gave me that to look after." Not strictly true, but the General continues to go through his wallet and pulls out a small slip of paper.

"Tickets from the theatre, collected by you, name of Holmes," Shan persists.

"Yes, okay ..." John fades off as he bites back a silent curse. He really needs to be more careful about whose identity he keeps in his pockets if he wants to stay safe. "I realise what this looks like, but I'm not him."

"We heard it from your own mouth." It's my turn to curse now. Surely he couldn't have been so stupid?

"What?" John replies obviously confused himself.

"'I am Sherlock Holmes and I always work alone.'" Shan quotes emotionlessly as John stares into space in front of him in utter disbelief. I share the same feelings.

"Did I really say that?" he chuckles weakly, and then lowers his head as a spark of pain shoots through him. "I s'ppose there's no use me trying to persuade you I was doing an impression." Sarah gasps from beside me as Shan pulls out a small pistol and points it at his head. A shot at that range would be less of a risk, but it's still likely that it could hit someone else, if John was to move suddenly. She won't take that chance.

"I am Shan," Shan introduces herself, and John stares up at her, obviously surprised that a middle-aged Chinese woman could be the leader of an international smuggling cult.

"You're ... you're Shan."

"Three times we tried to kill you and your companion, Mr. Holmes," Shan continues, ignoring him. "What does it tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight?" I think of a cocky reply I could call out, but think better of it, focusing my attention instead on causing enough friction between my jacket and the cloth so a fire is made, therefore freeing me of my bonds and causing a temporary distraction as we run for it. I've gathered all the information I need now to have her put down in prison for the rest of her life.

In front, Shan brings another hand to the gun and cocks it. John cringes back at the sound, turning away. I hear him mutter a soft plea, but I don't hear the words uttered as he struggles against his bonds also. I can't see the details of what is happening because Shan has moved so she is facing away from me, but from John's heavy breathing, I can tell that grip is tightening on the pistol. He looks back at the gun, his face full of terror as she pulls the trigger further back. She's bluffing. She has to be. The gun clicks, and John grunts in shock as the bullet never fires. The fire lights up Shans face as she turns slightly, smiling smugly. "It tells you that they're not really trying." John breathes heavily, trying to calm himself down. It's moments like this where I wish I had a knife.

We exchange quick looks again as Shan returns with a clip, which she slides into the pistol and cocks it again, pointing it at Johns head. He cringes away once more.

"Not blank bullets now," she teases, although the gun was empty before.

"Okay," John breathes out, trying, and failing to calm his nerves.

"If we wanted to kill you, Mr. Holmes, we would have done it by now. We just wanted to make you inquisitive." And we fell into that trap. Shan looks at him, stern and serious. "Do you have it?"

"Do I have what?" John questions, obviously playing stupid as we've talked about this enough times.

"The treasure," Shan replies, impatience growing in her voice.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he lies again as I continue to rub.

"I would prefer to make certain," Shan says as she turns away and I see her gesture to one of the men who stand to the side. In one swift movement, he pulls the cover off of the large object to reveal the crossbow from the theatre, already loaded and ready to fire. We're about to take part in an escapology act, for information John doesn't have. Not the way I had anticipated dying, but there could still be a way out. "Everything in the West has its price; and the price for her life ..." she gestures towards Sarah, and John turns to stare at her. "... Information." Obviously they think Sarah is worth more to John then I am, at this point, and I suppose, to some extent, she is. I'm just his 'friends' daughter.

I watch as the two men walk over to where we sit and pick up Sarah's chair, ignoring her cries of protest through her gag as they continue to carry her towards the crossbow.

"Sorry," John mutters despairingly from under his breath, his voice only just travelling close enough for me to hear it. "I'm sorry."

They set her chair down on the other side of the crossbow so that Sarah is facing, and directly opposite, the sharpened arrow tip. Tears trickle down her cheeks as she struggles in vain at her bonds. I, in the other hand, have found the knot, and have been able to untie it. I keep my hands behind my back though, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

"Where's the hairpin?" Shan demands, Sarah still safe for the moment whilst the sand is contained in the bag. John tugs at his own bonds, despite the pistol which is being pointed at him.

"What?" I may have neglected telling him about the pin before we were taken, but it matters very little now.

"The Empress pin valued at nine million sterling," Shan says, sounding incredibly impatient and demanding. "We already had a buyer in the West; and then one of our people was greedy. He took it, brought it back to London and you, Mr. Holmes, have been searching."

"Please," John begs. "Please, listen to me. I'm not ... I'm not Sherlock Holmes. You have to believe me. I haven't found whatever it is you're looking for."

"I need a volunteer from the audience!" Shan announces, treating this as just another performance.

"No, please," John repeats, desperately. Some date. "Please."

"Ah, thank you, lady," she continues, walking towards Sarah. "Yes, you'll do very nicely." Sarah wails as she tugs at the ropes in desperation. I can't move just yet.

Shan smiles, taking out a small knife from her pocket and reaching up to the sandbag, repeating the processes as she did before. The sand begins to trickle out, lifting the bag steadily higher as the weight lowers. Sarah continues to cry out as John just stares in absolute horror at the bag, unable to do anything to save his date. I sit still in my seat, watching with calculated thoughts. Shan smiles again, looking around at the absent audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen. From the distant moonlit shores of NW1, we present for your pleasure Sherlock Holmes' pretty companion in a death-defying act."

"Please!" John cries, but Shan continues to ignore him, choosing instead to walk over to Sarah and place an origami flower on her lap. The sign of a death committed by the Black Lotus. "You've seen the act before," she states. "How dull for you. You know how it ends."

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes!" John calls, frantically.

"I don't believe you," Shan snaps back. A shadow flickers in the firelight which is cast upon the wall, and I smile slightly as I recognise the outline.

"You should, you know." Shan twirls around and sees the silhouette on the tunnel walls. "Sherlock Holmes is nothing at all like him." I drop the ropes from my hands but freeze as Shan raises her pistol and aims it towards him. I hear dad's footsteps as he immediately shifts to the side of the tunnel, vanishing into the shadows. One of Shans men starts to run forward to meet him. "How would you describe me, John?" he questions from the shadows as John let's put a breath of exasperation. "Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?"

"Late?" John mutters tetchily.

"That's a semi-automatic," dad continues, ignoring John and stating Shans problem, giving me enough of a distraction to slip into the shadows. "If you fire it, the bullet will travel at over a thousand metres per second." Shan doesn't lower her aim, still ignorant to what her problem is.

"Well?"

"Well ..." dad pauses for a minute as the man who had ran forward reaches the large storage container. He runs from out behind it and I hear a metal bar come into contact with the man's stomach, and he falls to the floor, groaning in pain. Dad slips back into the dark. "... The radius curvature of these walls is nearly four metres," dad continues, quick firing. "If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit anyone. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit you." He darts out of the darkness and kicks over the nearest, burning dustbin, extinguishing even more of the light. John flinches at the sound and I turn thoughtfully around to the bin closest to me, but I guess it wouldn't achieve much except to draw attention to myself.

Dad scuttles through the shadows and appears just behind Sarah, beginning to untie her bonds after noticing that I've already gotten free. I recognise the figure of Soo Lin's brother as he runs up behind him, looping a long, red scarf around his throat a couple of times. The sand is still trickling out, the weight getting ever higher during the fight. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I twirl around, looking into the darkness behind me. A leg kicks out, coming in contact with my stomach, causing me to stumble back. I really need to be more observant. I straighten up, panting heavily as I try to recover my loss of oxygen, and find myself able to defend myself from his next attack, grabbing his fist and twisting it around. We continue to fight, both of us matching each other's abilities so that there is no clear leader. I risk a glance at what the others are doing as I duck beneath a kick aimed, again, at my chest, and see dad and Soo Lin's brother still struggling as John stumbles forward, which is hard considering he's still bound to the chair, towards Sarah, obviously realising that neither of us are going to get free quick enough to save her. I send out a kick of my own, a low one in comparison, but he jumps it easily, lashing out with his fists once more. Johns chair clatters to the floor as he loses balance, but he continues to squirm forward, getting ever closer to the cross bow. I spin back around in time to defend myself from what would have been a rather painful hit, and finish the fight with an uppercut, not unlike the one dad ended our fight with a few days ago. My attacker falls to the floor, unconscious for now.

John finally reaches the crossbow and I watch with relief as he kicks a part of the crossbow and rather from luck than judgement, the arrow realises, making its way across the tunnel and burying itself in Soo Lin's brothers chest, who falls to the floor with little more than a grunt of surprise. But where's Shan? I look around the tunnel as dad stands up, gasping for breath as the red scarf is still wrapped around his neck, and hear the distant quick-paced footsteps of General Shan, fleeing before she can be convicted. For a moment, I think both dad and I consider heading after her, but dad turns to a whimpering Sarah instead, choosing to untie her bonds and give her emotional support. After a moment of deliberation, I leave her too. She's lost the Jade pin and one of her best Tong agents. If she was working for someone, then she'll be dealt with in their hands, their way.

Dad soothes Sarah gently, dropping to his knees and untying her gag as he mutters soft words of encouragement.

"Don't worry," John mutters softly from the floor as I run over to him. "Next date won't be like this." I smile at his sense of humour and begin to untie his knots as Sarah continues to sob. Dad throws me his phone.

"Get onto Dimmock," he requests as be continues to soothe Sarah. "Tell him that a civilian was taken, but she's safe. I nod in return and dial the number.

A little later, the police arrive outside, their blue and red lights shining though the darkness. We walk out to meet them and a paramedic runs over to Sarah, wrapping a shock blanket around her as she shivers into it. I shiver too. The adrenaline had been keeping me warm throughout, but now it's over, nearly. John wraps his arm around Sarah and walks her away whilst we walk over to Dimmock by his car before we slip away.

"We'll just slip off," dad announces. "No need to mention us in your report."

"Mr. Holmes ..."

"I have high hopes for you, Inspector," dad admits. "A glittering career." I smile at the Inspector before I turn away.

"I go where you point me," Dimmock replies, in total contrast to his original actions to our help.

"Exactly," dad says beginning to walk away. We follow the road along until we reach the nearest cafe and we file in together. Now that I sit down in the booth with all the action over, my stomach rumbles against the newly formed bruise. "John thinks you're anorexic, you know," dad says suddenly. I look up from my hot chocolate with surprise.

"Really?" I answer, frowning.

"Yes, something about you not eating for a while?" I groan as we approach this subject.

"I'm absolutely fine!" I emphasise. Dad laughs.

"Yeah, I told him you were." He reaches forward, taking my hands as I put my cup down "I know you are, and I know you enjoy this type of life, but if it all gets too much, I'm here for you." I look up and smile weakly.

"Thanks, but I'm fine, really." He nods, and slips back into his usual state as our food arrives.

I wonder what's caused him to suddenly think about the human parts of us instead of the bits we use most in cases. I know it's been hard for the both of us after mothers death, and excluding ourselves from ourselves has been our way to cope. So why now?

A waitress comes over with our meals and smiles as she lays the plates down in front of us. Her current facade covering up for the fact that she's just caught her boyfriend cheating, in her own house.

The news flicks on from the TV behind the counter and I look up, curious to see whether our little adventure has hit the media at all, but when the journalist starts talking about rehoming a load of puppies, we pack away. Our story is unlikely to be broadcasted for government protection or whatever, which leaves us anonymous as usual.

I don't wake up until around ten the next morning. The previous sleepless nights finally caught up on me, leaving me to refresh myself for a while. I brush my hair quickly and slip on some clothes before I leave the room, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl on the kitchen table as I walk through.

"Morning," dad says softly as I sit down at the table, and he gets up to put the kettle on. "Hot chocolate?"

"Please," I agree, nodding, and peering at a newspaper. Some article about a series of disappearances capture my eye, but I draw them away again as dad hands me my mug.

"So, 'Nine mill' ..." John says, looking up from the kitchen table as he receives his tea.

"Million," dad corrects, as he pours his own up.

"Million, yes; 'Nine million for jade pin. Dragon den, black Tramway.'"

"An instruction to all their London operatives," dad explains, and John nods in mild understanding. "A message; what they were trying to reclaim."

"What, a jade pin?" John confirms.

"Worth nine million pounds," dad agrees. "Bring it to the Tramway, their London hideout."

"Hang on: a 'hairpin' worth nine million pounds?" John frowns.

"Apparently."

"Why so much?"

"Depends who owned it," dad points out.

"Who's was it?" John questions and I roll my eyes.

"Shan said in the tunnel," I remind him. "It's the 'Empress pin'. Extremely valuable on its own, but in a collection - priceless."

"So who's got it now?" John inquires. "I mean, both of the men the group suspected are both dead."

"Van Coon," dad begins, putting his cup down on the side. "We need to go to the bank. I need to have a chat with his PA." He walks towards the door, putting his coat on, and I stand up, joining him at the stairs. "Coming?"

"Yeah, hang on!" John mutters, finishing his own tea off before grabbing his coat and following us out.

"Two operatives based in London," dad explains, reciting the background information of the smugglers as we step out of the taxi and walk towards Shad. "They travel over to Dalian to smuggle those vases. One of them helps himself to something: a little hairpin."

"Worth nine million pounds," John adds.

"Belonging to the Empress of China," I finish.

"Eddie Van Coon was the thief," dad says again. "He stole the treasure when he was in China."

"How d'you know it was Van Coon, not Lukis?" John challenges. "Even the killer didn't know that."

"Because of the soap," dad says simply as we navigate through the revolving doors, and he looks smugly back at John. In surprise, even to dads high standards, he stops for a moment, staring forward blankly at dad before moving on again.

"How did you possibly get that from a bottle of soap?" John demands in badly suppressed amazement.

"Sophie," dad says, waving at me to explain as he walks over to talk to reception.

"Quite simple actually," I begin, and John rolls his eyes.

"Not for us all," he mutters, but I continue, ignoring him.

"I noticed that both Van Coon and his PA had the same brand of soap in their possession, a 'ladies' brand, if you like. Known for its soft texture and sweet scent. Van Coon was certainly not the type of man to buy himself scented soap, and the bottle was nearly empty, which means someone had been using it besides him. He'd had a lady over." Dad returns back to us.

"Sebastian is in his office, John. I'll let you two collect the cheque," he says, walking away in the direction of Van Coons office.

"But how did you get that he had the pin from that?!" John persists.

"I wasn't sure until recently," I admit, leading John through to Sebastian's office. "When we were looking through Van Coons receipts with his PA a couple of days ago, I noticed she had a pin in her hair. Looked rather expensive, but I didn't think much more about it. The soap, however, told us that Van Coon was in a relationship with his PA, but his frequent trips abroad meant that he had to apologise with gifts. To make up for his absence recently, Van Coon stole a hairpin for his girlfriend, with no idea of what its value or history was." I finish, and smile at John as his jaw drops open.

"Amazing."

"Thank you."

"Ah, Miss Holmes, Doctor Watson," Sebastian calls as he enters his office. "How's our little problem going?"

"All solved," I reply, calmly. "Your burglar scaled the side of the building, hopped onto the balcony, and came through the window to Sir Shads office which just happened to be open to leave a message to one if your staff." He raises his eyes in some skeptism, but pulls the draw on his desk open, withdrawing a chequebook and pen.

"I think we agreed on twenty grand?" Sebastian recalls, as he signs it. "Who am I making this payable to?"

"Mr Sherlock Holmes," I reply, looking out the window thoughtfully as he addresses it.

"He really climbed up onto the balcony?" Wilkes questions as he slips the piece of paper into an envelope.

"Nail a plank across the window and all your problems are over," John replies, scornfully. Looking slightly irritated, Sebastian holds the envelope out to John.

"Thanks," he says, handing it immediately over to me for safe keeping, now self-conscious about possessing anything of dads. As we turn to leave, I hear a piercing shriek of happiness, and smile myself as I recognise it as the PA. She's suddenly become a very lucky lady.


	13. Epilogue

The news of Amanda's luck hits the papers on Sunday. I return from the shops with three different newspapers, the prefered papers of our little household, and lie them down in front of the boys as I pour myself some water. Dad comes in from the bedroom, wearing his dressing gown over his shirt and trousers as he sits down at the dining table, and John emerges from upstairs a little while later and sits opposite him, picking up his newspaper as dad begins to read.

"'Who wants to be a million-hair'," dad quotes the lead article as he folds the paper in half, lying it down on the table before picking up his second. "Ever the inventive."

"Over a thousand years old and it's sitting on her bedside table every night," John says, shaking his head in disbelief.

"He didn't know its value; didn't know why they were chasing him."

"Hmm," John replies. "Should've just got her a lucky cat." He gestures to the awful ornament on our fireplace.

"Hmm," dad replies, his gaze becoming decent as John looks him over critically.

"Youmind, don't you?"

"What?" dad answers, looking over to him.

"That she escaped – General Shan," John continues. "It's not enough that we got her two henchmen."

"It must be a vast network, John; thousands of operatives," I answer. "We barely scratched the surface."

"You cracked the code, though, Soph; and maybe Dimmock can track down all of them now thatheknows it." I shake my head, smiling sadly as I flick through dads abandoned paper.

"No. No. I crackedthis code; all the smugglers have to do is pick up another book." The room grows silent as I scan the pages before my eyes narrow. 'A middle-aged woman, thought to have been of an oriental background has been found dead by her son in her home. The cause of death is unclear, although early investigations are showing that Shan Ling, 46, was shot.' I show the article to dad, and his own eyes narrow.

"It looks like we won't need to worry about them anymore," dad says, handing the paper over. "She's dead."

"What, really?" John splutters, taking the newspaper.

"A shot to the head," I mutter. "No doubt her employer killed her for not returning the pin."

"Do you think it's -"

"Moriarty," dad interrupts. "Very likely. I think we can expect something to happen very soon." John nods.

"Well, I'm off. Got to sort things with Sarah at the clinic." He leaves quietly, whilst we continue to flick through the papers for a new case.

"More dissapearances," I mutter quietly, looking at the pictures above the article.I look up, smiling, as the phone rings. Dad answers it immediately, slipping the phone from his pocket.

"Lestrade," he greets, pausing and allowing the DI to speak. "Brilliant, we'll be there in five." He drops his mobile back into his pocket.

"Good news?" I question, shutting the paper.

"The best. We're going to the graveyard."


End file.
